


this ain't a love song

by museaway



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse, Bodily Functions, Canon-Typical Violence, Depression, Drug Addiction, Gorgeous art by Jad, Grief/Mourning, Hurt Sam Winchester, M/M, POV Castiel, Post-Apocalypse, Recreational Drug Use, Toxic Relationships, caveat lector
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-31 15:41:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 32,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3983620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/museaway/pseuds/museaway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel turns back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. part one

**Author's Note:**

> **Caution: This takes place entirely in the croatoan endverse. It has a lot of dark and sad material. I'm not warning because I'd prefer you be in Cas's headspace. That said, reader discretion advised.**
> 
> If Sauron can pour hate and malice into a piece of metal, Sammy can survive being Lucifer's vessel with a little hand waving. Suspend your disbelief or back out.
> 
> This is technically explicit, but I find that rating draws a different crowd, so it's rated mature. Just FYI, it says the "c" word about 20 times.

 

Castiel isn't surprised by the gunfire.

He discerned the plan from the shuttered expression on Dean’s face, laid bare in his hardened eyes. It's rare that Dean shows any warmth or affection, not since the virus reached pandemic level. Not since Lucifer. Since Sam. His humanity is as tenuous as Castiel's grace. But as they knelt outside the chain-link fence in their final meeting, Castiel saw no further than Dean's eyes and stilled his breath as understanding dawned.

Dean was sending him to die.

He’s never said it, but Castiel knows that Dean blames him for Detroit. Lucifer is his brother, and his brother took Dean's. In two years they've never talked about it, but Castiel infers it every time Dean's eyes shift from his, when he chooses someone else to accompany him on a run, when he lies. Especially then.

He forgets that Castiel was once capable of reading thoughts with no more than a shift of his grace. Dean isn't to blame for that. Castiel is changed. It's been years (two? three?) since Dean looked at him in the way he used to, the way this other Dean has been looking at him since they met: a fond, subdued reverence. Castiel wishes he were stronger, that he didn’t want that other Dean so badly, but he isn't. He'll take that look with him to the end.

Inside the sanitarium, he mumbled an excuse to the rest of the group. He'd left something behind. He had to go back for it and would catch up in a minute.

They were going to their deaths. He knew he was _allowing_ them to go to their deaths and said nothing, just turned and ran toward the window.

He drops to the ground as the gunfire ceases behind him.

He should've died alongside them as a soldier, but he has to reach Dean. He has to stop him from carrying out this hopeless plan. He said he’d come along—where Dean goes, Castiel will follow—but he never promised to let Dean die, not while he still has life in him.

The Colt can't kill the Devil. They have to go, now—take the other Dean and leave. There might still be time to escape before croats rush the area. But if he faces Lucifer, Dean will die. When that happens, Castiel will lie down beside him.

He hurries out into the area beyond the fence, past the line of Jeeps. The other Dean, the one from the past, lies on the ground unconscious.

“Shit,” Castiel mutters.

He checks Dean's pulse to ensure he's alive, then leaves him where he lies, hurrying past him to chase a trail of footsteps. It ends in a garden.

He's too late despite his haste. He senses Lucifer’s presence even though he can’t see him at first. Across a tangle of weeds, Dean holds the Colt aloft, looking at Castiel with horror.

“Goddammit, Cas!” he yells. Lightning crackles overhead, casting shadows that fracture the garden. “Get the fuck outta here!”

Castiel cringes when he hears Dean cock the Colt, feels the shift in the air at the whip-like snap and recoil of Lucifer's grace. It launches Dean across the garden into a statue. He falls to the ground, curling into himself and moaning.

The Morning Star makes himself visible, stepping around Dean’s body, conspicuous in a white suit. He is otherworldly, the most beautiful of God's angels. Castiel is overwhelmed.

“Hello, Castiel,” Lucifer says pleasantly, approaching.

“Brother.” Castiel straightens and wets his lips. They taste like dust.

Lucifer sniffs in his direction.

“Graceless,” he says, glowering. “That’s interesting.”

“I went mortal.” Castiel lifts his chin.

Lucifer's eyes dart to Dean before resting on Castiel again. His gaze holds the power of the Third Sphere. This is the closest to his father that Castiel has ever been, in the presence of God's favorite. He cannot bring himself to look away, even as Lucifer chuckles.

“Obviously.”

Dean is silent, motionless on the ground. Castiel tightens his grip on the shotgun over his shoulder, but he knows Lucifer won't let them escape. He made the effort of luring them here. He likely orchestrated Dean’s access to the Colt all along, allowing Dean to believe they might actually succeed in stopping the apocalypse. Instead, he's led them here.

Here it will end.

Lucifer crosses the garden and bends to admire a rose. Castiel lets out a humorless laugh. As much as Lucifer envies humanity, he is the most human of angels. He snaps the stem and holds the rose at eye level—blood red and perfect.

Castiel flinches at the unexpected blast of the Colt. He whips around to find Dean cradling it in his hands, held mere inches above the ground. Dean groans as Lucifer lifts a hand and disarms him with a bored expression. The Colt hasn't touched him, as Castiel knew it couldn't. He watches Lucifer's advance on Dean in stunned horror, impotent to stop it.

Out of habit, he feels for his angel blade. It's worn at his hip beneath his clothes, a trinket as useless as Castiel himself, but he wraps his fingers around the handle and slides it into view. He has nothing left to give but his life, which he gives willingly for Dean. He might buy Dean a few seconds. What good is a fallen seraph if Dean Winchester might survive?

Lucifer doesn't acknowledge Castiel's approach. He places a white leather shoe on Dean's neck and bears down.

Castiel raises his arm. With a trembling hand, he plunges the blade between Lucifer's shoulders.

Lucifer flickers.

Castiel stumbles, expecting immediate death, but Lucifer tilts his chin skyward. Thunder bellows as a blinding light surges from his mouth and eyes and from the wound on his back. Castiel averts his gaze.

Earth trembles. The Morning Star falls and goes dark, and Sam collapses to the ground.

It's quiet. The thunder has stopped, allowing Castiel to hear his own panicked breaths. He stares at Sam's back, at the spot of red blooming through his white, white suit. He can’t hear Lucifer anymore, not even a whisper.

It’s not possible. It’s not _possible_ for a seraph's blade to kill an archangel, to kill The Fallen One, but that's his vessel dead on the ground. Castiel's eyebrows draw together in grief. He offers a word of peace for Sam and hopes that he's able to find solace in Heaven. Surely, even with the angels gone, Sam has been forgiven and assumed.

Lucifer must have been weakened when the angels left, just as their exodus drained Castiel's grace. It's the only explanation, yet Castiel can scarcely believe it. He's well-versed in Lucifer's tricks; this is not the serpent's first time in a garden. So he strains, searching with his wisps of grace, but detects nothing. Sam's body continues to bleed.

When he groans, Castiel's eyes widen.

Sometimes he can't separate reality from what he sees in his head, but he can feel the wind and the velvet crush of rose petals between his fingers. He hears Dean moan on the ground behind him, is aware of the preternatural silence in the sanitarium. He smells the stink of his own skin. This is not a side-effect of the drugs.

Sam is alive—miraculously, impossibly—and Castiel must save him. He removes his jacket, balls it up and holds it against the stab wound on Sam's back.

Demons and croats will come for them at any moment. They’ll have seen what happened and will rush the area. Castiel leaves Sam and hurries to Dean’s side, dropping to his knees and cupping Dean's face in his hands.

“Dean?” he whispers, brushing a thumb across his cheekbone. “Can you hear me?”

Dean opens his mouth but doesn't speak.

“We have to get out of here.”

Castiel picks up the Colt and thrusts it into his waistband. He takes Dean in his arms and lifts, groaning under his weight. Dean is heavy, much heavier than he felt when Castiel was still an angel. He’s only got the strength of a man, but he drags Dean out of the garden and into the car. He limps back for the other Dean and shakes him awake.

“You’re alive,” Dean says, astonished, gripping his arm.

“Help me with Sam,” Castiel orders. Dean's mouth drops open and he fumbles the words.

“Sam? How—?”

“He’s badly hurt,” Castiel tells him. It’s dismissive, but there’s no time for exposition. “We need to go.”

They carry Sam to the Jeep and lay him on a blanket. Dean climbs into the open trunk and kneels next to him, maintaining pressure on the wound. He looks at Castiel with pleading eyes.

“There’s nothing I can do,” Castiel says flatly and starts the engine.

The ride is uncomfortable without his jacket. It's not a warm day, though the sun is out. He keeps his speed to eighty, swerving to avoid hazards in the road: part of a car door, a picked-over animal carcass. His teeth chatter with cold, but he sets his jaw and bears it.

In the seat beside him, his Dean moans quietly and lolls his head against the window. He clutches at his arm and head but isn't fully awake. Castiel keeps the accelerator to the floor the entire ride, holding the wheel tight when the Jeep pitches and rocks.

There's nowhere they can go that's truly safe. The virus affected the entire planet. There are rumors that it's more controlled out East. Canada closed its borders a year ago, but without his grace, Castiel can't transport them anywhere. They don't have enough fuel to make it that far north, and with Dean's ribs and arm likely broken, he requires medical attention. On top of that, Sam is dying. Their only choice is the camp.

It's too much to hope that his father will return, even now that Lucifer is dead. He has forsaken them. He has forsaken Castiel, but Castiel isn't angry with Him any longer. He drives.

* * *

Dean comes to during the car ride, about twenty minutes outside camp, when Castiel's eyelids are beginning to droop and his vision is blurry.

“Cas?” he croaks, struggling to sit upright.

“The others are dead,” Castiel tells him. “Just as you ordered.”

“Fuck,” Dean curses, sluggishly wiping his eyes. “What about you?”

“You know me,” Castiel says, shrugging. He adjusts his hands on the steering wheel and suppresses a shiver. “Never been good at following orders.”

“You followed me.”

Castiel doesn't answer.

“Lucifer?” Dean asks.

“Dead,” Castiel says.

He rakes a hand through his hair. His hands are shaking. He needs a hit—doesn't matter what, he just needs something. The panic is starting to creep from his stomach into his chest cavity, up into his brain. He’ll be sick soon. He can't think about what just happened or what he just saw, the fact the Dean sent him to his death or that he just murdered his own brother.

His brother is dead. Dean’s brother is injured but alive in the back of the Jeep. Their situations have reversed. It should be a time for celebration, and all Castiel can think about is popping open an orange vial, swallowing a couple pills, and falling asleep in a heap of dirty blankets.

As soon as they reach camp and he’s seen to Dean’s injuries, he'll take enough to shave the edge off. Just enough to mute his anxiety, not enough to knock him out. Dean's going to need help getting around, but the other Dean is here for now, murmuring to Sam every time he groans when they hit a rock, when a tire sinks into a rut and the Jeep bounces.

“What the hell?” Dean asks.

“Sam survived,” Castiel reports, needlessly checking the rear-view mirror. They’re the only car on the road. “I’m not sure how.”

“Sammy—” Dean says and tries to crane his neck around. Castiel whips out an arm and holds him in place.

“I got him,” the other Dean says from the trunk. “Bleeding’s slowed.”

Dean settles at the reassurance, though his eyes still dart over his shoulder like he's trying to see Sam, _needs_ to see Sam.

“You sure Lucifer is dead?” he asks. “He’s not gonna trojan horse his way into camp?”

Castiel isn't certain of much anymore, but he's certain of this, just as he was certain when the other Dean appeared and Castiel felt the time rift as Dean stared at him, like a current.

“I’m sure,” he says gruffly.

Chuck greets them with a stony face when they roll into camp a little before noon. Of the six vehicles that left, only one returns. In addition to being a loss of invaluable resources, something they can't help but think about, it's a funeral procession. A dirge plays in the sound of the door latches, swinging heavy on their rusted hinges.

Dean's injuries aren't life threatening. They'll leave him sleeping in the car and come back for him once Sam is stable. Castiel reaches across the seat to touch his face before climbing out.

“Sam is injured,” Castiel informs Chuck, planting one boot heavily on the mud, then the other. He’s been awake for so many hours, his legs feel like they can’t hold his weight. He sways on them, hungry and thirsty and in need of sleep. “Get him to my cabin.”

“Sam?” Chuck repeats. “How?”

“Help me carry him,” the other Dean says to Chuck, already climbing down from the Jeep. Chuck scurries to assist but grimaces at the sight of blood. Dean catches Castiel’s eye. “Cas—you too, man.”

“Are the others far behind?” Chuck asks.

Castiel’s lack of response is enough for Chuck to understand. He sighs heavily, then holds up Sam’s legs. He walks backwards while Castiel supports Sam’s center. The other Dean has his head and shoulders. He guides them across the craggy terrain and up the stairs. Lucifer's white suit is ghastly in the afternoon light.

They lay Sam on his stomach on Castiel's bed. Dean begins peeling away the layers of clothing, until he exposes Sam's bare skin, the ugly wound the blade left behind. Castiel can't look at it. He gathers the clothes and his own blood-soaked jacket and takes them to the laundry pile. He lays the white suit on top.

“You’re not gonna burn that?” Dean asks. His voice is sharp.

“We can’t afford to waste anything,” Castiel explains. The tear his blade left is small. It can be repaired, and the pants are in good condition. If no one will wear them, he’ll keep them for himself, or mend them and save them for Sam, if he recovers. It’s perverse but necessary. He removes Sam’s shoes and puts them under the bed.

“Get me hot water,” Dean orders, turning his attention to Chuck. “You got any antiseptic?”

“Some,” Chuck says.

“Bring it. Needle and thread? Gauze?”

“Yeah.”

“Bring them too.”

Chuck glances to Castiel, who nods. “You got it,” he says and hurries out of the cabin.

Dean painstakingly cleans the puncture wound. Chuck holds the bowl of water and offers up tools as Dean requires them: rag, alcohol. The iron tang of blood turns Castiel's stomach now that he isn't able to heal. He presses up against the wall, just inside his door, and worries the beaded curtain between his fingers.

It's not an adequate door for inclement weather. The fluctuations in temperature didn't bother him while he still possessed his grace, and Dean never complained. But over the years, as his grace drained, Castiel has become increasingly aware of temperature, humidity, barometric pressure. He prefers early autumn, when it's still warm enough to sleep without additional blankets but cool enough that he's comfortable. He'll need to replace this door if Sam stays here.

Sam should stay. Objectively, this is the nicest cabin in camp. It's the logical choice for his recovery.

Castiel fumbles for his pills. The amphetamine wore off hours ago; he made the drive largely on adrenaline and shock. But the stench of blood is cloying. He's trapped in this cabin and will claw out of his skin if he can't take the edge off. He swallows a muscle relaxant and steals out onto the porch for a drag, holds the smoke in his lungs and allows his head to drop toward his chest.

He was supposed to die this morning. He was supposed to _die_.

Sam moans into the bedsheets, but Dean doesn't stop working. He cleans Sam's back meticulously—Castiel can't see, but Dean's fixed him up countless times in the past few years—and murmurs to him so quietly, Castiel can barely make out the words.

“I got you, Sammy.” Soft, like a lullaby. “I got you.”

Castiel raises his eyes to the Jeep where Dean is asleep, visible in the distance.

* * *

When it's done, Chuck leaves, shuffling down the steps and away with an awkward wave over his shoulder. Dean joins Castiel on the porch and slumps against the wall, tilting his head back to breathe.

“How is he?” Castiel asks.

“I don’t know,” Dean says. He doesn’t look at Castiel, just takes a deep breath through his nose and blows it out through his mouth. “Bleeding’s stopped. He seems stable for now.”

“I don’t understand how he survived. When an angel dies within a vessel, his vessel dies too.”

“Then you’re wrong about one of two things: Lucifer isn’t dead, or it’s possible to survive and they’ve been lying to you upstairs.”

Castiel gives a half shrug. “Maybe.”

“Hell, maybe Sammy found the strength, told him to get out last minute.”

“I suppose it’s possible that Lucifer shielded Sam from damage.”

Dean scowls and turns toward him. “Why the hell would he do that?”

“As a gift.”

“That’s one fucked up thank you card.”

Castiel offers him the joint, but Dean frowns and shakes his head. Castiel shrugs again. He takes another drag and lets it out, studying his hands, the dirt beneath his fingernails.

“Dean,” he says.

“What?”

“You need to accept the possibility that Sam might never wake up. What Lucifer did to him...it’s like being dragged by a comet.”

Dean nods slowly. “Chuck went to see about catheters, long-term stuff.”

“Our medical supplies are limited, but there’s a hospital not far from here. We could take the Jeep.”

“Let’s go,” Dean says immediately. Castiel’s pulse jumps.

“We need to get Dean out of the car,” he says, turning his head toward the road.

“Let someone else babysit him,” Dean snaps, grabbing Castiel’s arm. “This is Sammy we’re talking about.”

* * *

Chuck volunteers to come along as an extra pair of hands, but Castiel insists he stay with the camp.

“You’re the best choice to replace Dean while he’s recovering,” he says, throwing a spare shotgun into the trunk with the gas cans. “We’ll be back in a few hours.”

“Hey, while you’re there, see if they have any—”

“I know,” Castiel assures him, clapping Chuck on the shoulder. “I’ll look.”

Chuck looks grateful, smiling lopsidedly as Castiel palms the keys and gets into the Jeep. The other Dean climbs into the passenger's seat. It's an eerie flashback to the night before the ambush, but whatever borrowed giddiness the drugs had given Castiel then is absent.

They don't speak much during the ride. Dean clenches and unclenches his fists and stares idly out the window.

Providence Medical Center in Kansas City is long deserted. They reach it in under an hour. They've raided this hospital before for medication and emergency first aid supplies. Castiel is confident that other camps have done the same. But with no one expecting long-term survival, it's likely that no one prepped for it. There might not be any Vicodin left, but there could be enough supplies to care for Sam.

Castiel slings a shotgun over his shoulder after he turns off the Jeep. He grabs several empty tote bags and opens the passenger's door, staring for an indulgent moment before he shakes Dean awake.

Something grunts. Castiel whips around and plugs a croat loitering by the entrance. The gunshot echoes across the weedy parking lot. He braces for the sound of running feet, but the croat must be a loner. Nothing else comes their way. He listens for a few more seconds to be sure, then motions to Dean that it's clear. They jog toward the building, sidestepping the body. Castiel shoots it in the head for peace of mind.

Dean stares at him for a beat, then frowns and turns his glare toward the hospital's automatic doors. He kicks at them, like he expects them to open, even with the downed power lines outside. There's no one to fix them anymore. Castiel would laugh at his innocence, but they need to get indoors. He shoulders the metal frame, forcing the door wide enough for them to both slip inside, then shoves it closed again. It's rusty, the mechanism crammed with grit, but it'll hold.

He hasn't been inside this hospital in two years. They raided it when the virus went from being a threat to a certainty, radiating from the major cities. Kansas City didn't fall for another two months, but when the virus reached them from St. Louis, it was over. Croats crossed the Kansas River and took out Topeka and Wichita.

It was clear they were on their own. No angels answered their prayers, and Castiel's radio was static. God was surely gone, and with Lucifer walking free, the angels fled. After countless millennia, they left the world to rot, just as this hospital was rotting the first time around, already heavy with the fetid stench of decay.

It just smells like an abandoned building now, like mold and damp and rust. Any bodies, if they remain, are probably skeletons now. Castiel doesn't look into the rooms as they progress down a long corridor, motioning to Dean over his shoulder. He keeps a hand on his weapon.

As expected, the drugs are long gone, most taken by their own camp, but Dean locates a supply closet that contains bandages and gauze, antiseptic wipes, rubber gloves, and hypodermic needles. He shoves handfuls of each into the bag he carries. Castiel locates catheter kits and underpads and rubber tubing. Dean looks at them with unease—his eyebrows pinch together as he visibly swallows—but he packs those too and zips the bag closed without a word.

There are stacks of clean, folded sheets. Castiel drapes several over his shoulder—fresh sheets are a luxury he hasn't known since they first made camp. Dusty packages on a high shelf catch his eye.

“Grab that toilet paper,” he instructs.

Dean obeys, taking down as many as they can carry, and they carefully close the door behind them. If they're lucky, the rest of the supplies will still be here when they run out. Croats are capable of opening doors, retain their basic motor functions, but it's unlikely they'll enter without a noise or the smell of a live human on the other side. When they have the time and manpower, they should return for beds and new mattresses.

The hospital's gift shop is picked through, but Castiel recovers a mug and a couple yellowing paperback books, a few travel-sized bottles of painkillers forgotten behind the counter.

“Ready?” he asks, motioning toward the exit. Dean nods.

Through the glass doors, he spots two croats wandering unsteadily in the vicinity of the Jeep and one crouched beside the passenger's door. Shit. He doesn't risk shooting at them —it might serve only to draw more forward. Who knows how many have gathered because of his two shots earlier. He puts a finger to his lips to indicate Dean should remain quiet.

After a minute, the two croats turn and walk away, but the third remains in place, touching an oily residue on the ground. If they sprint to the driver's side, Dean could jump into the back while Castiel starts the engine, and the croat shouldn't have time to touch him. If they shoot the croat, the other two will undoubtedly turn around. The Jeep's engine isn't always reliable. Two croats are easy. They've got enough ammunition to take down fifty, and Dean’s an expert shot, but if they generate a crowd it could mean suicide.

He eases open the door and beckons Dean forward. They keep close to the building, taking careful steps that shouldn't solicit attention. He points a finger at the driver's side door. Dean nods that he understands.

The wind blows and stirs debris, catching their scent. Castiel curses under his breath. The rustling makes the croat's head snap up. It sniffs. Castiel instinctively reaches behind him to wrap a hand around Dean's wrist. This is not his Dean, _this is not his Dean_ , but he does it anyway, clutches Dean's arm and holds tight. Dean doesn't fight him, drawing up against his back, his breath hot against Castiel's ear as he pants. Castiel's heart pounds like thunder. They wait and watch.

The croat looks in their direction but either doesn't see them or has recently fed. It stares without blinking long enough that Castiel feels sick rise into his throat. If it moves toward them, they have nowhere to run but back inside, trapping themselves in the building.

He's certain that Zachariah wouldn't allow Dean to die here, in a future that doesn't belong to him, but Castiel won’t take chances. He’ll distract the croats, hold them off while Dean escapes. He’ll sacrifice himself, if necessary, to ensure that Dean gets back to his time. At least he'll die with purpose. Castiel moves backward a step, so that his body covers Dean's entirely, feels the pounding of Dean's heart in his wrist where Castiel's fingers wrap protectively.

The croat looks down and in the opposite direction, toward the road. Dean lets out a breath. It’s hot against Castiel’s neck. He relaxes his grasp but doesn’t release his hold on Dean, not right away. But Dean touches his shoulder and whispers, “Come on,” so they inch their way toward the Jeep.

Castiel quickly opens the door, holding his breath as he does, like that will coax it into opening quietly. The hinges betray them, and then that pale, wild-eyed thing is staring them down and struggling upright.

“Go!” Dean hisses, cocking the shotgun.

Castiel turns the key once, twice, three times—

“Fuck,” he swears, but the starter works the fourth time. It turns the engine over and the Jeep roars to life. The two croats turn in their direction just as Castiel shifts into reverse and squeals backwards. Dean kills the nearest croat as it gets close enough to swat at the door handle, dropping it to the ground.

Castiel shifts into drive and floors it. Dean plugs the two croats that sprint after them. He shoots three more on their way out of the hospital parking lot. When the way is clear, he rests the gun on his knees and lets out a breath.

“Damn,” he says, shaking his head. The wind ruffles his hair.

Castiel grunts his agreement and pops a couple amphetamines. He swallows them dry. One lodges in his throat and feels like a tumor, a fat uncomfortable lump. He wishes there had been drugs at the hospital. He's never anticipated a time when he'd run out, but he takes them just to get through a day. Dean used to ration the pills; used to question Castiel's intake, order him to stop using, stop trying to kill himself; beg him as Castiel rocked into him despite the heat, to the thrum of insects.

But it happened one morning, two years ago: Dean stopped asking. Castiel turned a blind eye to Dean's techniques for extracting information, and the other half of Castiel's bed was cold when he woke up.

They drive for miles before either of them speaks, but Dean's voice snaps him back to the present.

“Where do you get fuel, anyway?” he asks as they pass a darkened Gas n’ Sip.

“We used to get it out of Canada, but Joseph’s got a degree in chemistry. He makes his own biodiesel.”

“No shit.”

“He’s got a mouth on him, but he’s handy.”

“Huh,” Dean says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “So. I didn’t peg you for the orgy type.”

It's a continuation of their last conversation in this car, incongruous with the circumstances. But Castiel understands when Dean leans forward, head bowed toward his chest, eyes closed. He's upset about Sam. The least Castiel can do is distract him. Besides, it'll keep him awake while he waits for the pills to kick in.

“I had a lot of time to make up for,” he answers.

Dean sniffs. “Figured you for a one-woman kind of guy.”

“I was monogamous when I had a partner.” Castiel’s reply is purposefully vague.

“What happened?” Dean asks, turning toward him. “She die?”

Castiel shrugs and adjusts his hand's position on the steering wheel. He lets his left arm hang out the open window. That isn't the truth, but he's willing to allow this Dean to believe that it is. There's no reason for him to know any more than that. What good would it do? He'll leave, and Castiel will never see him again.

“Sorry, man,” Dean says. The sympathy in his tone is genuine, not put on. Castiel can tell the difference, just like he knew his Dean was lying yesterday. This Dean isn’t hardened, not yet. There’s still hope for him. “How long ago?”

“A couple years,” Castiel replies evenly. He sucks on his teeth and widens his eyes to stave off exhaustion. The best lies are closest to the truth. “Two.”

“What was her name?”

Castiel lets out a sigh and laughs helplessly, shakes his head and scratches his scalp. He could say anything, any name, and Dean would believe him, but no others come to mind.

“I’ve found that sex is a satisfying diversion,” he says instead, circling back to Dean’s original statement. He swerves to avoid a broken-down sedan. Its doors hang open, the car long empty. “I see why you were so anxious for me to experience it.”

“Yeah, well. Guess you learned your lesson: no talking about fathers.”

The fuel gauge hasn't worked in a month and he wonders just how much gas they've got in the tank; if they'll make it home before he has to refuel; if Dean is even aware he left camp; if God knows that Castiel has no faith left. His eyes flit up to the sky, then down to the broken gauges. His throat is suddenly tight.

“Yes,” Castiel says. “That subject’s off limits.”

* * *

While they were out, Chuck had Dean moved to Risa's cabin, since it's currently unoccupied. There isn't time to mourn the dead just yet. There are few reminders of her in the main room: a photograph of her and her sister that is curling at its edges, a collection of colorful bottles on the window sill, a chipped coffee mug that reads _hope_. Castiel feels a tug in his stomach at the sight of Dean lying in Risa's bed, knowing that Dean has sought comfort in it before.

“He’ll be fine,” Chuck says, misinterpreting Castiel’s expression. He shifts his weight between his feet, eyes darting from Castiel to Dean, then out the window. “Cracked ribs, sprained wrist. I gave him something so he’d sleep.”

“Alright.”

“I’ll leave you two alone. Going to check on Sam,” Chuck says and hooks his thumb toward the door. He shuffles out.

Dean is lying on his back, on top of the sheets. His boots are still on. They're tracking mud on the dark green comforter, but it's already soiled. He moans quietly from pain and clutches his side.

Castiel chews the inside of his cheek and sets his teeth before approaching. He lays a hand on Dean's forehead to check for a fever. He's warm but not hot, skin damp with perspiration. There's nothing they can do about cracked ribs. Dean will have to wait it out, take it easy until they heal. They can keep him comfortable for a couple days, but Dean will refuse the pills once he’s thinking clearly. Sighing, Castiel drags a chair next to the bed and slumps into it.

“You’re an idiot,” he mutters. He isn’t sure if he’s talking to Dean or to himself.

He scratches his nails through a few days of stubble, scratches his scalp until it hurts. His fingertips smell like oil and skin and dirt. Castiel stopped trying to clean himself a long time ago, the first time Jimmy's suit pants ripped and Castiel couldn't repair them, when his cheek tore open on a branch and his skin didn't knit together for days, when rocks bit into his knees as he held tight to Dean's hips and swallowed him down. He wore those bruises like medals of honor, the pain in his gait a reminder of something beautiful.

Risa has been dead less than a day, but Castiel reaches for the picture of her beside the bed and tips it face down. It's petty. He doesn’t care.

He rocks back on the chair's legs and folds his arms over his chest. Dean would likely be angry at him for sitting here, but it's been a long time since he watched Dean sleep, and it's drizzling outside. There's nothing he could be doing, anyway.

Dean is familiar like this, asleep with his mouth just dropped open, snoring lightly. He twitches sometimes, a jerk in his midsection and his legs. His right wrist is wrapped in a bandage. It sticks out from his jacket. Dean will no doubt remove it as soon as he wakes up. He twitches again and shivers. The rain has caused a drop in temperature. Castiel thinks of lying next to him on the bed, of sharing body heat. A year ago, two—he would've done it without thought. He scans the room for a blanket and covers Dean to his chest, settling back in the chair and propping a foot on the bed frame.

He rocks as the rain falls.

Everyone in camp has a creature comfort. Dean has his whiskey, Castiel his pills. Risa kept a handful of books she salvaged on supply runs, inexpensive paperbacks and hardcovers missing their dust jackets and what she called “trash novels.” Castiel tried to explain that if she derived satisfaction from them, they were hardly _trash_. She’d rolled her eyes and grinned and said it was just an expression.

He thumbs through one of them now, a thick book on yellowed paper and tiny print. The cover is blue and has a white flower on it. He skims a few pages toward the end of the book and yawns. Everything appears to turn out well for the protagonists. He snaps it closed and tosses it aside, glad when it skids under the bed and out of sight.

* * *

An hour later, Dean grunts himself awake. He pulls into a sitting position and winces. Castiel doesn't particularly feel good or bad about that. He probably should feel bad, but he recalls the way Dean laughed mirthlessly when Castiel broke his foot last year and left him to stare at the ceiling. There's a certain pleasure in the parallel.

Dean catches his eye. He looks grateful that Castiel is here, and simultaneously furious about it. He cups a hand over his ribs and sucks in a breath between his teeth.

“Where’s Sammy?”

“In my cabin,” Castiel replies and leans away, removing his foot from the bed.

“Why aren’t you with him?”

It's a harsh laugh that comes out, bitter, broken the way Dean is broken. Castiel shakes his head and lets his arms hang limp over the sides of the chair.

“Chuck’s with him.” He pauses before he adds, “And the other you.”

“I want to see him.” Dean stands unsteadily, wedging his shoulder against the wall for support. He plucks at the bandage on his wrist.

“That’s there for a reason,” Castiel says thinly, raising an eyebrow, but he doesn’t get up.

“You gonna sit there all night, or you coming with me?”

“I don’t know. It might be amusing to watch you try and walk there on your own.”

“Fuck you,” Dean spits.

“I’m not on the menu today.” Castiel stands and crosses the small room. He holds his breath as he slips an arm around Dean’s waist. Dean curses but leans into him. “Ready?”

“Just start walking.”

They shuffle to the door.

“How do you take this shit every day?” Dean asks, blinking lethargically as he drags a foot over the threshold. Castiel kicks the door closed behind him and doesn’t bother to answer.

“Watch your step,” he says and helps Dean down the stairs.

The rain is coming down cold in a steady patter. Castiel's hair plasters to his forehead. It's obvious Dean is in a great deal of pain from the way he groans with each step, but he doesn't walk gingerly. He adapts his usual gait, hurrying to Castiel's cabin with an urgency he hasn't displayed in years. It's sinful to be jealous of a dying man, but there it is.

The other Dean is at Sam's bedside with his head dropped into his hands. He's sitting on the very edge of his chair, knees dropped apart, elbows resting on either one. His back is shaking. Castiel interprets this as crying, something he does rarely, despite being human. It's always struck him as beautiful, the way Dean cries. He used to place such value on life.

Castiel brushes aside the curtain. The beads sway and clack together, creating enough noise that Dean lifts his head.

“He’s asleep,” he says, getting up. He motions to the chair and avoids Castiel’s eyes. Castiel steers Dean toward it, but Dean shoves off his hands, stopping at the end of the bed.

“This ain’t possible,” he says under his breath.

Castiel sighs and takes the chair himself. The other Dean stands next to him, close enough that Castiel can smell blood and perspiration. It's a noxious potpourri, but he inhales, recalling a time he would've drowned in it.

He hasn't slept in two days, so he reaches for the vial in his pocket and pops another dose. Both of the Deans will need sleep. So will Chuck, which leaves no one to watch over Sam. Sam is in this condition because of him. Castiel silently volunteers for the night shift.

Dean doesn't seem to notice, his attention fixed on Sam, but the other Dean is watching him from the corner of his eye. Castiel can feel the weight of his stare. He rolls the vial between his fingers to distract himself from looking up, listens to the pills tumble against each other, and twists the cap closed.

His stomach growls. They haven't eaten. Dean is probably starving after their hospital run and watching Sam all afternoon.

“You need food,” he says, touching a finger to his mouth. He mulls over what food he has in the cabin, considering whether it’s enough to feed the three of them or if they’ll need to hit the mess. He has a few canned goods, though the labels are worn off—the contents are a gamble.

“Stole a pack of jerky from your cabinet,” Dean says.

The words make his heart clench. Castiel doesn't say that he has been saving that jerky for a special occasion. He's been saving it for two years.

“Jerky’s not enough,” he says instead, ignoring the surge of disappointment.

He smooths his palms over his thighs and pushes to his feet, moseying to the cabinet. There are a selection of naked cans, a few containers of freeze-dried camping food they lifted from Walmart about six months ago, some energy bars, and an empty spot where the jerky used to sit. Its absence causes a bad taste in his mouth. That's irrational. It's better that Dean eat it. It wasn't doing any good in the cabinet.

He opens one of the freeze-dried packs and skims the instructions, pours water into an electric kettle and sets it to boil. At least they still have electricity for now. Eventually the power grid will break down and they'll lose that too, be dependent on generators until the gasoline runs out and then—who knows. They'll find a new power source, maybe harvest the wind. Not so long ago, Castiel watched humans discover hydropower. They're set back a couple hundred years, but this is far from primitive.

There's a tense silence in the main room. Castiel keeps his back to both Deans. He hears them both breathing, the occasional rustle of fabric when they move. He imagines Dean dragging an arm over his forehead, scratching his cheek. The water boils and he pours it into the pouch, stirring with a long spoon. It's some kind of stew, thick and beige. The smell is unappetizing, but it's food. Chuck has crates and crates of the stuff.

The ground here is fertile. They should look into growing their own.

“Exactly how long’s Zach planning to keep you here?” Castiel hears Dean demand. His tone is acrid, like he’s actually angry about his past self being in the room. Maybe he is.

“I got no idea,” the other Dean replies. His voice is neutral, though Castiel detects a hint of irritation.

“Somehow, I doubt this is what he wanted you to see.”

Castiel is inclined to agree, though he doesn’t say so. He keeps his head ducked and gives the stew a final stir before doling it out between three mismatched bowls. He balances one in the crook of his elbow and the other two in his hands. He sets Dean’s on the table beside the bed; he’ll eat when he’s ready. The other Dean accepts his bowl with a muttered “thanks” and eats quietly, poking at the stew with his spoon.

“Always wanted to go camping,” he says with a hollow laugh.

“Since we don’t know when you’re leaving, we need to get you set up with a place to stay,” Dean says to him, sniffing.

“I’m not leaving him,” the other Dean declares and motions his head toward Sam.

“That makes two of us.”

They stare at each other. Castiel says nothing.

After a tense silence, they both nod. Dean purses his mouth, glances to the bowl of food, and adjusts the blanket over Sam's legs.

The other Dean resumes eating. His thigh is just inches from Castiel's arm, which rests on the arm of the chair, elbow jutted out, balancing the bowl. Castiel tries not to think about Dean's thigh, about what the muscles feel like underneath his hands, clamped tightly on either side of his hips.

_Zachariah, you ass. You asshole._

Dean shifts his weight between his feet, and Castiel's mouth goes dry. He shoves it full of stew, swallows without chewing properly, and feels the bulk of it slither down his throat. It hurts, but the pain is penance. For the second time today, he reminds himself that this Dean is not his, and Castiel has no right to think of him. He belongs to another Castiel, one who is good and holy and pious, who hasn’t fallen yet—not entirely.

And if this Dean can return to his time, can change his own destiny, perhaps he can change Castiel's as well. The other Castiel will never fall—not in love and not to Earth—and he'll never sit in this cabin with Dean, cheated of a package of jerky.

The amphetamines have kicked in again. He's exhausted, but his eyes are wide and his mind is racing. He misses the luxury of coffee. He hasn't tasted it in years, not since they ran out of the instant kind a short time after they got the camp set up. It was one of the first things to go.

He hurries to finish his meal and excuses himself, heading outside and crossing the small field behind his cabin. He sinks down into the tall grass. It's damp and lit by moonlight. Moisture seeps into the seat of his pants, but Castiel doesn’t mind. He lights a joint and takes a long drag, resting his arms on his knees.

This field is one of his favorite parts of camp, second only to the lake: undeveloped and a little wild. They’ve used the field for target practice and for inventory. There have been days when Chuck has sheets laid out with boxes of supplies stacked on them for counting. They've used the field as a hospital, as temporary housing, as a parking lot. On a muggy night their first summer here, it held him as he held Dean.

It would make a good place for a garden. They should grow marijuana. He’s not the only person in the camp with a taste for it, and it would be useful for trading.

He stretches out on his back and lets the grass tickle his neck and ears. He blows smoke toward the stars he can’t name anymore.

Does Dean feel any remorse for the orders he gave? Would he repeat his actions and send them into the sanitarium again? Did he mean to let Castiel go without so much as a goodbye? He entertains the thought that Dean believed he was doing Castiel a favor. Heaven might still be open to them. Maybe, just _maybe_ , Dean thought that Castiel would be granted passage.

The lie makes it bearable. He takes another drag and feels some of the anxiety leave him. He holds in the smoke until he no longer wants to crawl out of his skin. Once he's good and calm, he stretches languidly and prepares himself to face the cabin.

It's no better than it was ten minutes ago when he stepped out. The other Dean has taken the chair; his chin is nodding toward his chest as he fights to stay awake. Dean still hasn't eaten. Castiel takes a chance and places his hands on Dean shoulders, steering him towards the bed.

“Sit,” he orders.

He shoves the bowl into Dean's hands. Dean glares at him but sits gingerly on the edge of the mattress, focusing his gaze on Sam. He eats with a bitter expression and falls asleep beside his brother.

Castiel worms the bowl out of his hand and cleans it with a rag. He'll wash it in the mess tomorrow. There's no point wasting water tonight. The bed is plenty big for Sam and Dean to share, and the other Dean is asleep in the chair beside the bed. It's chilly now that the sun is down, but Castiel has been cold before.

He's bitter over the fact that two years later, Dean is in his bed, and Dean is lounging on a chair beside his bed, and Castiel is stretched out alone on the floor. He spreads a ratty blanket over the carpet and tries to sleep.

* * *

The following morning, Castiel checks in with Chuck regarding the camp’s inventory.

“We’re getting low on food,” Chuck says quietly. Castiel is too exhausted to care, but he nods to let Chuck know he’s listening. The information should probably cause a rise in him, but he merely absorbs the details. He doesn’t consider their weight.

“Probably best if you make those decisions for the time being,” Castiel tells him. “Until Dean is ready to resume command.”

He doesn't say what he's thinking, that Dean might never be ready, but Chuck understands.

“Yeah, okay,” he agrees. He blinks rapidly, surprised or flattered or both.

Castiel avoids his cabin. He goes to the bath house for a piss, then jerks off in the shower to an image of a younger Dean. He should hate himself for that but doesn't have the energy.

Sam is never left alone. Castiel checks on him periodically throughout the day. Dean rarely leaves the cabin, while his younger counterpart crosses the compound a handful of times, portaging food. Castiel catches Dean watching him through the window with a cautious expression.

They check Sam's wound together, clean it and change the gauze. They attach a new leg bag, hold his mouth open, force food inside and coax him to swallow. Castiel lays a fresh underpad on the bed and disposes of the soiled one. Sam's body functions, but his mind isn't present, lurking where it had been shielded from Lucifer. Both Deans sit silent vigil at his bedside.

Mid-afternoon, Castiel gets high in the planning cabin. He nicks Dean's keys and unlocks it, shutting himself inside. He sits down on the rough floorboards. How many people has Dean tortured in this room? They might've been demons, but they were people once, and their vessels died with them. Dean used to care about that. Even as demons, they weren't necessarily bad. Time has taught Castiel that—no one, even fallen angels, are inherently good or bad. They’re what they have to be to survive. That was even true of Lucifer.

He traces the dark outline of an old bloodstain—did it belong to the first one Dean tortured? The last? He flinches when a splinter works its way into his fingertip. It's an ugly brown thorn, an insignificant injury, but his finger throbs. Dean shot and stabbed him the day they met, and now he's incapacitated by a sliver of wood.

He eases it out with his teeth, sucking on his fingertip until the ache eases. He thinks about going to Jane, but the thought of her touching him no longer has any appeal.

He returns to his cabin after dark, when the planning cabin has grown cold and the high has worn off. He must have dozed off for a while, because his eyes are crusted with sleep at each inside corner. He grinds them clean with his wrist, the joint of his thumb. His mouth is dry and stale. He runs his tongue over his teeth, scraping it clean. It doesn't help. He heads straight for his toothbrush and water basin when he gets home.

Dean is asleep beside Sam again, just where Castiel left him last night. The other Dean gets up when Castiel enters and comes over to him.

“Made one of those stew packs,” he says in a low voice. “Left you some, in case you’re hungry.”

“Thanks,” Castiel says. He motions to the carpet, still spread with his blanket from the night before. He sits with his legs folded under him and eats. Dean sits down too and leans back on his hands, watching.

“Wound looks better,” he says. “Not much swelling.”

“Any response yet?” Castiel asks between mouthfuls. The stew tastes better tonight because Dean prepared it.

“Nope,” Dean says. “Not a damned thing.”

“It’ll likely be a long time, if at all,” Castiel says. He doesn’t regret saying it, but he wishes it weren’t true. He eats the rest of his food in silence.

Dean yawns, so Castiel shrugs out of his jacket and balls it up, pushing it to him.

“I just woke up,” he says. “Get a few hours of sleep. I’ll wake you if anything happens with Sam.”

Dean looks at the offering and frowns, but accepts it with a tentative, “Thanks.” He bunches it underneath his head and lies down, facing away from Castiel.

He sighs in relief. Just seeing Dean’s back is easier than looking at his face while he sleeps. It soothes his frustration, but he’s still angry that Dean’s sudden appearance can stir up so many emotions.

If only he _could_ strap on his wings, he'd leave.

(No, he wouldn't.)

On the bed, Dean is asleep sitting up, his head hung forward. The position looks uncomfortable. Castiel considers getting up to adjust his head, but he stays at a safe distance on the other half of the room. He wipes out his bowl and pulls a blanket over the other Dean's legs.

He takes a book from a shelf, Vonnegut, and thumbs through it. Vonnegut is Dean's pace, not an author Castiel particularly enjoys. He picked up this book as a gift for Dean, lying abandoned in a hospital waiting room. Dean used to read it out loud to him sometimes, late at night. He's a poor reader, but Castiel would tuck his head beneath Dean's chin, against his chest, and fall asleep to the rumble of his voice.

He mouths the words as he reads but doesn't speak them out loud. He should throw the book away, but it would be a waste, considering no more are being printed. Libraries have undoubtedly been ransacked, their contents burned for heat. It would be irresponsible, inhuman, to destroy this book. He closes the cover and hides it beneath a stack of clothes.

Sam moans, but neither Dean wakes up. Castiel goes to him and checks for a fever, laying the back of his hand across Sam's forehead. He can't discern Sam's pain, though it must be great. Had Lucifer kept Sam in an illusion, or was Sam aware of each action? Was he watching when Lucifer attempted to kill Dean? Is Sam aware that Dean was prepared to let him die?

He should be dead. They should all be dead.

Exhaustion is making him maudlin.

He should sleep. He should sit in the chair next to Sam's bed and sleep, but he goes to the floor, a storm of heaviness descending in his chest.

Dean is beautiful, laid out asleep on the rug. He has an arm tucked underneath his head, with Castiel's jacket on top of it, nose buried in the fabric. Dean is breathing them in.

_Why did you send him here, Zachariah?_

He should’ve stayed in the chair. If he can't control himself, he should leave—but he reaches out a hand.

Dean's hair is soft, just as he remembers it. With a gasp, he cards his fingers through it, combs it away from his forehead. He strokes Dean's hair and lightly touches the back of his neck. Dean murmurs in his sleep and adjusts his position on the floor, rolling onto his stomach, but doesn't wake.

Castiel shouldn't be doing this, but he continues, moving his fingers in soothing patterns.

He stays like that for hours, until the sky outside is ink black. The cloud cover obscures the stars, and Castiel falls asleep with his hand nested in Dean's hair.

* * *

He wakes abruptly in the night to the sound of Dean exhaling heavily across the room.

Castiel lifts his eyes.

Dean's face is stern, jaw set. He clamps a hand over his broken ribs as he works himself upright, swings his feet to the floor and gets up. He trains his eyes on Castiel, flicks them down to his other self, and sniffs.

Castiel looks down. During the night, Dean rolled closer, so his head is resting against Castiel's thigh. Castiel's hand still touches him, curved over the back of his neck. He strokes Dean's skin tenderly with his thumb.

He swallows hard but doesn't remove his hand, makes a point to bring it to the crown of Dean's head and stroke backwards once.

His Dean says nothing, just takes a deep breath and stalks out the door. It's still dark outside. Castiel listens for a long time for Dean to return, but he doesn't hear footsteps. Maybe he's gone to the planning cabin. Castiel knows he sleeps there sometimes, when he doesn't have another bed to crawl into, or maybe he went back to Risa's cabin.

Castiel feels something tight in his chest loosen and settle.

He tries to fall asleep again but fails, lying awake listening to the wind and scurry of feet on the roof. There was a time he would’ve feared a croat attack, but it’s likely just a raccoon or possum. He finds them equally unsettling.

It's an hour before Dean wakes up, and his Dean never comes back. The other one wakes with a groan and sluggishly rubs at his eyes before sitting up. He glances to Castiel's leg, where his head rested, then away. His neck and ears are flushed red.

“Sorry, man,” he says.

“I’m not.”

It's flip, but it's the truth. Castiel reaches into the dresser behind him and pulls out a pouch and a stack of papers. He drops a pinch of leaves on the paper and rolls it up. He twists the end and lights it.

“You weren’t kidding,” Dean mutters, shaking his head as Castiel draws the burned, sweet flavor into his lungs. “What time is it?”

Castiel shrugs and holds out the cigarette. Dean looks at him for a long time, his expression guarded and searching, before he accepts it. He brings it to his lips and takes a slow drag coughs, and pounds his chest with a fist.

“Damn,” he sputters, shaking his head. “Guess it’s been a while.”

Castiel chuckles. “Here,” he says and takes back the joint, draws in a lungful, and crooks his finger.

Dean raises an eyebrow, confused. But Castiel leans toward him, tilts his chin up with a finger, and brings their lips together.

Dean is startled. He goes stiff—his mouth is a hard, tense line—but he doesn't jerk away. Castiel waits. After a handful of seconds Dean parts his lips, and Castiel exhales into his mouth.

“Hold it in,” he murmurs, withdrawing, and taps Dean’s mouth closed. Dean obeys, watching him through wide, wide eyes.

“Okay?” Castiel asks, and Dean nods, once. Castiel smiles, just for him, and takes another hit. He feels loose all over, relaxed. He could sleep if he wanted to, curl up here on the rug with Dean and shut his eyes.

Dean raises both eyebrows, probably wondering if Castiel will allow him to exhale. Castiel touches his cheek, skimming his fingers over Dean’s stubble.

“Let it out.”

Dean does, blowing the smoke toward the floor. It curls beautifully from his lips.

“Cas...” Dean protests weakly, but Castiel trails his fingertips over Dean’s stomach, which is revealed in the way he has twisted around to look at him.

They repeat the steps: Castiel leans in and seals their mouths together. Dean accepts the smoke, taking Castiel's air into his body. When he exhales, the smoke settles and disappears.

Castiel doesn't take a drag before he leans in this time. He kisses Dean, and it's familiar yet starkly new, welcome but bittersweet.

Dean doesn't kiss back, but he doesn't leave and doesn't push Castiel’s hand off of his stomach. He doesn't tell him to stop, so Castiel continues. He slides his hand into Dean's hair, this time with a different intent. He pulls Dean's mouth firmly against his to make it known.

And then it happens: Dean's hands are a frenzy in his hair, and Dean's hands are on Castiel's shoulders, and Dean's hands are snaking under Castiel's shirt and over his skin. There's a buzzing in his ears as the world dulls around them and goes silent.

“What about Sammy?” Dean asks between breaths, his voice hitching.

“He’s asleep,” Castiel promises and works a leg between Dean’s knees.

He's half-hard, cock straining against his clothes as he settles over Dean. He untucks Dean’s shirt and pushes it up to his chest, mapping Dean's stomach with his hands and lips. Dean squirms with every touch, gasping when Castiel hooks his fingers in the side of Dean's waistband. He slides them around to the front, so his fingertips brush through Dean’s wiry pubic hair as Castiel unbuttons his pants.

Dean moans when Castiel mouths his cock through his boxers, canting his hips toward Castiel's mouth when he exhales over the base. He's greedy, grabbing fistfuls of Castiel's hair. He hasn't bathed in days; his scent is overpowering. Castiel inhales him, sucking in a full breath and holding it as he works the boxers down just far enough that the tip of Dean's cock is exposed.

Castiel latches onto it, sucking and laving his tongue over the tip—it’s salty and slick. He takes Dean as deeply as he can, holding his breath to keep himself from gagging. It's been years since he did this for anyone. He's out of practice, but every inch of Dean is familiar. Castiel worships him.

“Jesus,” Dean curses, tightening his grip on Castiel’s hair, fucking up into his mouth.

Castiel pulls off for a moment, laughing as he works the boxers past Dean’s hips, shoves his pants down to his ankles. “Sucking your cock is a religious experience,” he says, wrapping his fist around the base and pumping slowly.

“Fuck.”

“Later,” he promises with a chuckle, biting at the skin beneath Dean’s naval. “You’re a work of art, spread out like this.”

“Shut up and blow me,” Dean hisses, but there’s a sweetness in the way his fingertips play over Castiel’s scalp, how he cries out when Castiel swirls his tongue in a lazy ouroboros over the head of his cock.

It's not enough to have Dean in his mouth. He swipes his finger through saliva pooling at the base of Dean's cock and noses his balls, taking one into his mouth—his Dean always liked that. He's gentle, teasing the wrinkled skin with his tongue and his teeth as he reaches between Dean's legs.

Dean tenses when Castiel touches him, his muscles involuntarily clenching. Castiel circles him with a fingertip. He licks a stripe along the underside of Dean's cock and feels him relax, applying just enough pressure with his finger to breach the ring of muscle. The intrusion has Dean swearing under his breath—low, guttural words Castiel can't make out. He might as well be speaking in tongues. Castiel teases him, working his finger incrementally as he continues to suck.

He wants to fuck Dean, wants to sink inside his body. He wants Dean to say “yes” to him the way he wishes he’d said yes when Castiel was still an angel, so he can know this Dean from the inside. But this is the closest they can ever be: Castiel touching him intimately, Dean’s cock nudging the back of his throat.

Dean groans just before he comes in Castiel's mouth.

Castiel relaxes his lips and lets Dean work himself against them as his cock softens, then slip out. Dean shuts his eyes and rolls his head away. Castiel swallows and collapses on Dean's chest. He covers them both with the blanket and gulps in a breath.

He can hear the world again: the scratch of branches on the roof, the howl of something far away. The room reeks of sex and pot. He's still hard, but he got what he wanted.

“Are you alright?” he asks.

“Yeah,” Dean answers. His voice is rough, but he’s not angry.

Castiel rolls his face into Dean's shirt and presses his forehead against his sternum. He inhales and plants a kiss on Dean's jaw, on his mouth, while he entwines their legs, greedy for the feeling of Dean’s body next to his.

Dean puts a hand on Castiel's back, on his shoulder blade, and moves his fingers gently.

“Two years, huh?”

[](http://jadstiel.tumblr.com)   
_  
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* * *

Dean stays with him through the night. Castiel wakes to their arms and legs touching. But Dean gets up and straightens his clothes, pulls on his jacket, and goes to the wash basin to clean his hands and face.

“Damn, what I wouldn’t give for a cup of coffee. My head’s killing me,” he says with forced laughter, not quite looking Castiel in the eye. He rubs water over his face and dries it on a monogrammed towel Castiel took from a home goods store.

Castiel smiles at him, though Dean can't see, exhaling laughter through his nose. He finishes cleaning up and goes to check on Sam, speaking to him quietly. Castiel balls up the blanket and piles it on top of the laundry. He straightens the rug and pulls on his boots, finger combs his hair. He doesn't bother with a clean shirt.

“How is he this morning?” Castiel asks.

“About the same,” Dean says, rubbing his neck. He scowls the way he always does when he’s about to say something Castiel won’t like. “Look, Cas—”

“I get it,” Castiel interrupts, bracing himself against rejection. It’s not the first time.

Dean looks at him strangely and blinks a few times. He purses his mouth.

“Zach could pull me outta here any second,” he says. He almost sounds apologetic.

“We had a good time,” Castiel dismisses.

He smiles again—forced, this time—and goes outside to piss and smoke. Risa's porch light is on.

* * *

Zachariah takes Dean before noon.

He vanishes just as suddenly as he appeared, between syllables. The last thing Castiel sees is the flash of his smile, head angled toward his brother.

* * *

Dean comes to sit with Sam but doesn't look at Castiel or acknowledge his presence. His head is bowed when Castiel speaks to him. If he answers, it’s in monosyllables and grunts. He might as well be faceless. Castiel doesn't see his eyes all day.

He beats dirt from his blankets, does a half-ass job washing his clothes in the lake, and goes to the planning cabin. He swallows half a bottle of the first thing he can find, lies down and curls up with his knees to his chest, praying for the dark. He doesn't want to die, he just wants to forget.

He wakes in a pool of his own vomit, limbs and hands unsteady. The floor pitches like he's on a ship. He crawls away from the mess and goes back to sleep but he doesn't cry.

* * *

Dean leads a team into Kansas City the following day for supplies, so Castiel spends the day with Sam. Despite a headache, he reads to Sam from a book of poetry.

“ _It seems bees have a notion of honour_.”

He gets no response, not even when he pulls up Sam’s shirt to check his wound.

He could kill Sam and ensure his release. It would be kinder than keeping him alive with his mind imprisoned.

Castiel reads to him until he yawns repeatedly and is forced to stop. He lays the book on the mattress, open on their current page, and goes to the window. He stretches while he looks out on the camp, lacing his fingers behind his back and opening up his chest muscles. Behind him, Sam sleeps.

That evening, he makes broth for Sam and spoons it into his mouth, then checks his leg bag. Human bodies are so wasteful. He doesn't have an appetite after that, so he smokes to inspire it but ends up sleeping in the chair next to the bed with an empty stomach.

* * *

It's two nights before Dean returns. He barges into Castiel's cabin smelling of liquor and cigar smoke. They've lost someone. Dean always drinks when they lose someone. He stands at the foot of the bed.

“No change,” Castiel tells him.

“He’s gone, huh?” Dean says. It’s a minute before Castiel follows.

“Three days ago,” he says.

Dean huffs, taking a swig from a bottle in his fist.

“Did you let him fuck you?” he slurs.

These talks are exhausting. Castiel closes his eyes, then gets up and crosses the room, putting as much space between them as he can.

“Since when do you care who I fuck?” he asks. His voice is tired. Castiel is tired. He’s tired of this, of Earth, of Dean, of himself. “You’re unhappy and you want to blame someone. I’m not responsible for what Lucifer did.”

“You’re an idiot,” Dean tells him. He’s followed Castiel across the cabin and is standing behind him: a tense, angry presence.

“Probably,” Castiel says sharply. “I still love you, so my sanity is in question.”

Dean grabs his wrist and wrenches him around.

“Fuck you, Cas.”

They've played this game before. Castiel goes limp and lets Dean shove him against the wall. His breath is heavy with smoke and alcohol. The kiss is hot and needy, bruising to the point of painful, but even when it hurts and Castiel is certain Dean has drawn blood, he lets it go on.

He feels something wet against his cheek, but it's a minute before he realizes that Dean is crying. He's crying open, angry tears: tears for Sam, tears for himself. He's crying and he's come to Castiel for comfort. Castiel won't deny him this and won't deny himself. He cups Dean's face and brushes the tears with his thumbs, smoothing them gently over his cheekbones.

Dean knocks his hands away. He takes a swig from the bottle and stumbles back a few steps until he's propped up against the opposite wall. The whiskey makes a sloshing noise when he's stopped moving.

Castiel curls his fingers into a fist that he holds against his mouth while he considers whether to stay or go.

“Give me that,” he snaps after a minute. He swipes the bottle from Dean’s hand and tilts it up to drink. The whiskey is strong, the sour burn slicking down his throat into his chest. It’s like swallowing fire. He swallows two mouthfuls before handing the bottle back and collapsing against the wall next to Dean.

“What if he never wakes up?” Dean slurs when the bottle is empty, dangling from his fingers.

Castiel takes it from him and sets it aside. He grips Dean's shoulder the way he did upon their first meeting, brushing fingers along his jaw.

“You need to sleep,” he murmurs.

Dean meets his eyes. They're still wet and spilling over. When Dean kisses him this time, it's sweet and desperate—he sobs against Castiel's mouth and sucks on his lips, pressing close and holding them together, like he can crawl into Castiel's body. Dean wraps his arms around his neck, so their chests and hips are flush. He grinds against Castiel slowly.

Castiel eases him to the floor, so they lie on the rug. He weaves their hands together and kisses Dean's neck, his collarbone, his jaw, his mouth. He kisses Dean the way he’s longed to kiss Dean for two years, and Dean whimpers into it.

He undresses Dean slowly, taking his time to relearn the marks on his arms and chest, the bow of his legs. He kisses each one, lingering over new scar tissue he has never touched, baptizing it with his tongue. He bends Dean's knees up to pull off his jeans, kisses a trail along the inside of his thighs to the base of his cock.

“Cas,” Dean whimpers and arches up off the ground. “ _Castiel_.”

He hates and loves the sound of his name from Dean's mouth, a name Dean uses so rarely, whispered like a confession. No god will hear it. No god is watching over them. Castiel swallows Dean's cock, his head swimming with whiskey and anger; swallows him down until Dean is keening, until Dean can't say his name anymore.

He plants both palms on the floor, on either side of Dean’s hips, and bobs up and up and up. Dean babbles, “Cas, please, baby, _please,_ ” and tears at his hair. Castiel pulls off when Dean is close—he knows the signs, after all this time—and spits into his palm.

He's quick working him open, and then Dean is crawling onto his lap. He lowers himself onto Castiel's cock and throws his head back. Castiel gasps at the homecoming.

He grabs a fistful of Dean’s hair and kisses him hard. Dean curses into Castiel’s mouth, but the way he moves is surprisingly gentle, lifting up and nearly off, then easing down again, rocking his hips forward. He's warm inside, he's so _warm_ —has he done this with anyone since Castiel; has he wanted to?

Castiel cries out. He gently cradles Dean’s neck and hip and comes with his face pressed to Dean's shoulder, kissing his skin the way he did the first time in Bobby's spare room.

Dean has gone soft. He pants as he splays a hand on Castiel's chest and creates a space between them, lifting off with a winces. Dean stumbles to the wash basin to clean his hands and comes back with a damp rag.

The way he wipes Castiel's fingers clean is more intimate than what they just did. Castiel counts Dean's freckles in the moonlight through the cabin window. He sees the worry plain on Dean's face, desperate to ease it.

He takes the cloth and tosses it into a shadow, cupping Dean's face and drawing their mouths together again. He wraps his fist around Dean and kisses him, squeezing when his cock begins to fill. Dean squirms on his lap and groans. When Dean is close again, Castiel drops between his legs to take him as deeply as he can.

Dean comes down his throat. Castiel doesn't pull off right away, marveling at the way Dean pulses between his lips, how he tenses with every swipe of Castiel’s tongue. Dean lies still and allows his cock to soften in Castiel’s mouth.

Their history dictates that Dean will get up and leave now that it's over, but he curls naked into Castiel's side and sighs. He cards his fingers through Castiel's hair and lets Castiel cover him with blankets, lets Castiel slide a thin pillow underneath their heads, lets Castiel kiss him goodnight while Sam slumbers in their bed across the room. Dean makes so many allowances, all but one.

“Why won’t you let me love you?” Castiel begs.

“Cas, you know I...” Dean slurs into his neck.

He doesn’t finish. He doesn't kiss Castiel's mouth again and doesn't give permission, not for this, but he doesn't leave. It's enough.

* * *

Castiel wakes up naked and cold.

His back aches from a night on the floor, but he welcomes the bruising on his neck and chest. He tenses his stomach muscles to pull himself into a sitting position and replays the movement of Dean's hands mapped onto his skin.

There was something different in Dean's movements last night. Castiel felt wanted. Dean hasn't made him feel that way in a long time.

He can't trust they'll pick up where they left off or that Dean even wants that. Dean was upset and intoxicated, and Castiel took advantage of that. It's probably immoral for a human to do that, but he wanted it. He's used to taking what he wants if he means to survive. Dean taught him that.

His mouth is dry. He crawls naked to the wash basin and cups a hand of water to clean it, spits it into the bowl and rubs a second handful over his face, working it into his hair to push it away from his forehead. It's too cold to bathe today. His skin prickles at the crisp air, goosebumps rising over his arms and chest. His dick is shriveled between his legs, but he recalls Dean's hands on him and the heat of Dean's mouth and the sensation of Dean underneath him, and it goes half-hard.

He hears movement on the other side of the curtain. Dean is checking on Sam. Maybe Dean will revisit his living arrangements, agree to live in this cabin again with Castiel. It was his cabin originally. By all rights, as the camp's leader, the largest and best-equipped cabin should still be his. It has direct access to the camp's water supply, and the best strategic position, nestled in the back of camp, farthest from the gate. Dean has never asked Castiel to give it up, and Castiel has always hoped that Dean would come home.

He won't ask today. It's too soon. They need time to figure out if this is viable, or if they'll only make each other lonelier being together again. Still, the thought of Dean with sleep-tousled hair and bruises on his body, just a few feet away, makes Castiel's chest feel like bursting.

He'll never stop loving Dean, no matter what transpires between them. That thought, the very notion of loving Dean Winchester, fills him with a satisfaction that makes him smile, sigh fondly as he fills a kettle with water and lights the burner.

Tea is a luxury, but this morning calls for it. They'll lean against the porch railing and drink tea the way they used to, with their shoulders almost touching. Dean was always careful to maintain an image of power. It was the only way to maintain control over the camp, he said. If they knew he was soft, it would mean mutiny.

Castiel never understood Dean's position. It was no secret they slept together, but Dean insisted their relationship appear casual on the surface, and over time it grew casual. They took other people into bed with them: first one partner, then two, until Castiel was surrounded by a group of willing participants and not Dean. Maybe it had been Dean's way of extracting himself from the relationship, ensuring Castiel had other people to help him learn to be human.

If it made Dean happy, Castiel was willing to go along with it. So he went along with it time after time. But after Detroit fell, Dean never moved the beads aside again, never crawled onto the center of the woven rug, never put a hand on Castiel's chest and pushed him onto his back. Not until last night.

Castiel makes a decision: he won't let Dean walk out again. They can fix this. They _will_ fix this.

He brews two mugs of tea and finds his shirt, pulls it on with a pair of semi-clean pants. Arranges his hair. The little moisture he worked into it has dried. He picks up both mugs and pushes the curtain aside with an elbow, smiling as he looks to where Chuck is bent over next to Sam's bed.

“Chuck,” Castiel says with surprise. His face falls. He can’t help the way his voice betrays him, how it strains and breaks.

“Cas, hey,” Chuck says, his voice just above a whisper, like he fears he might wake Sam.

“Have you seen Dean?”

“If you mean his taillights, then yeah. He took off first thing this morning with the team, soon as it was light. Asked me to check in on Sam.”

“Took off?” Castiel repeats and doesn’t drop the mugs. His heart slams in his chest along with the increase in pounding at his temples and in his wrists. “Did he say when he’ll be back?”

“Couple weeks.” Chuck sounds confused, like he can’t quite believe that Castiel doesn’t know Dean’s plan. As second in command, he should.

 _You bastard_ , Castiel thinks as his eyes begin to burn. _You son of a bitch_. Last night was a goodbye.

“Of course,” he murmurs and sets down the mugs with shaking hands. He hides them behind his back and watches while Chuck cleans Sam’s face with a cloth and pulls the sheet over him.

His eyes spill over. He brushes the tears away without blinking.

“Guess that means you’re in charge now,” Chuck says. He smiles at Castiel and crosses his arms over his chest. On the bed, Sam goes on sleeping.

“Yes,” Castiel says distantly and cannot tear his eyes from Sam’s face.

“Well, if there’s any changes to the routine, you let me know.”

“Yes,” Castiel repeats. He gives a forced smile in return. “Thank you, Chuck.”

“Yeah, no problem,” Chuck says and heads out.

Castiel stands beside Sam's bed in disbelief, left behind again: first by the angels and now by Dean, in a ruined area of Kansas. He doesn't move for a long time.

He's overcome by nothingness, hardly aware of the air in his lungs, hunger, the stinging in his eyes. The sensations are removed from him, echoed from somewhere very far away.

Frightened and alone, he tears open the cabinet, knocking the cans and food packets aside as he reaches for the vial of Percocets he knows is still there. Yellow tablets tumble happily into his palm.

Castiel prescribes himself a temporary euphoria and doesn't wake for a day. 


	2. part two

The first two months pass in a blur. Castiel doesn't remember them.

He finds himself standing outside his cabin on the porch; or beside one of the vehicles, knelt down to check the tires; or beside Sam's bed, with no memory of how he got there. He isn't certain that he eats. His vessel—his body, because it's _his_ body now—doesn't register hunger or cold or exhaustion. He doesn't sleep more than a few hours a night. He lies on the floor in his cabin and watches the stars through the swaying beads. They move with the wind and scatter the starlight.

He speaks when spoken to, with no memory of what was said or how he answered. He supposes the camp knows and understands because they grant him a wide berth. Chuck comes every morning and every evening to check on Sam and to replenish the cabin's supplies. He's kind. He says nothing, and he leaves as quietly as he arrives.

People don't visit him. There are no more orgies; he'd derive no satisfaction from them. He doesn't speak of perception, doesn't believe in it any longer. It had been a way to patch the loneliness Dean's rejection left behind. Patch, but not heal.

He sips broth so hot it scalds and later tongues the peeling roof of his mouth without context. His stomach is empty, concave beneath his hands, yet it wants for nothing. He wants nothing but solitude. His clothing grows loose, far looser than it has ever been. He's lost weight, he supposes, loathing of his bare reflection in the cracked mirror. His fingers play across his ribcage like piano keys. He washes himself when Chuck suggests it, lowering a cloth into the basin, wringing it out. The water is cloudy. He ought to toss it out.

The look on his face is impassive. It doesn't feel like his face, but rather a mask, an expressionless thing he wears that doesn't smile and doesn't frown; a face that doesn't belong to him. It's the face of a dead man. He doesn't want it. He covers the broken mirror with Lucifer's bloodstained jacket.

Two months go by, and Castiel might as well have blinked. It's August and then it's October, but he has nothing to show for the passage of time.

He sits for hours in silence beside Sam's bed. Sam's breathing is often labored. Sometimes he murmurs not-quite words. His skin has developed sores from so many weeks on his back, and he is frail. Wilted. Castiel rearranges the pillows beneath Sam’s head so that his breathing quiets, then resumes his seat and listens to the wind. It moans notes as barren as he feels. He thinks of crawling into the bed with Sam if only for the sensation of another person beside him, but he restricts himself to the chair.

His legs often go numb along their undersides, until he can't feel his feet. He should stand and walk but doesn't have the energy. His stomach growls, but he has no will to eat. It isn't logical to expend the camp's food supplies on him, when he contributes so little. He's a leader in title only; Chuck is handling the day-to-day operation, the food supply, camp inventory.

To think Castiel once commanded a garrison.

There's no sense in prayer. The angels won't return. Castiel wishes he'd possessed the strength to leave with them.

Two months go by, and Castiel can't abide his shrunken reflection, wishes he hadn't turned back, had faced the gunfire.

* * *

Chuck has a door installed, which Castiel allows for Sam's sake. He takes down the beaded curtain and folds it into a box, tucking it away with his sparse possessions: the blue tie Jimmy's wife selected for him; the FBI badge that Dean slipped into his jacket; a grainy picture of him and of Dean when they first came to this camp. At Bobby's insistence, Dean took a picture of the camp's founders but didn't step into the photograph himself. Castiel questioned him about it, and when Dean refused, Bobby snatched the camera away.

“Say cheese,” he groused, which Castiel found perplexing, but he stood obediently, shoulder-to-shoulder next to Dean, the weapon held between them. Bobby captured their likeness and had it printed along with the group shot, which he displayed in his home.

They spent many nights at Bobby's back then, before the major cities fell, when they were on constant alert to avoid Heaven's spies. That house held many of their firsts: the first time Castiel held Dean as he cried through the night over his brother; the first time their lips met; the first time Dean held Castiel tenderly and murmured into the crook of his neck.

Castiel's neck hurts from too many nights on the floor, though the cabin is more comfortable with a proper door. Sam sleeps more easily. Chuck thinks he'll survive the winter, but they're getting low on supplies to care for him. The longer Sam sleeps, the more likely he'll remain in a permanent vegetative state. Chuck doesn't say what Castiel is thinking: if Sam doesn't recover, continuing to care for him isn't a practical use of resources.

It's the end. Everything is finite.

A decision will have to be made, but Castiel cannot be the one to make it. Dean would never forgive him.

* * *

The weather in Kansas grows cold. Castiel grows cold with it.

At night, when the sun sets, the temperature plummets to near freezing. The floor of the cabin is hard and cold; wind whistles through the walls and the floorboards. These cabins weren't constructed for year-round habitation, but he's got to make do.

There are blankets in the storage shed, but it’s penance to lie shivering at night on the floor. He curls into himself on the woven rug, hugging his knees like he wishes he could hold Dean. They survived their first winter here like that, huddled together in the dark, their shared heat warding off the cold, and Castiel whispering into Dean’s hair, “We’ll find him.”

The shivering reminds him of those nights. It reminds Castiel that he is alive, the first real sensation he's had in months. When the temperature hovers at zero, Chuck brings extra blankets that Castiel piles on top of Sam. His face is pink with warmth. His wound is healed, though he continues to sleep. Castiel lies awake, numbed through, unable to feel beneath his ankles. He lies shaking and thinks of Dean.

There's no news of him. Castiel has long accepted the lack of communication among camps, the silence of his brothers and sisters, his inability to pick up on Dean's prayers—if Dean still prays to him after all this time. But his grace has diminished to the point where he can't even detect a longing, assuming Dean longs for him as he once did.

He forgets about his wings. They were a part of him for millennia, but it's only when the shaking becomes so severe that it rattles his chest, causes his human body to convulse, that he thinks to bring them into this plane and shield himself from the cold.

There's hardly anything left of them, a film of gossamer between his skin and the air. His feathers molted but never grew back. The secondaries are gone; the remaining primaries hang like dead leaves that survived winter clinging to a branch only to fall. He skims a hand along the underside of one, so frail his fingers are visible through it. His hands falter and the wings snap back to the ethereal plane. He collapses, spent, and vows never to extend them again—a symbol of his former life that can't protect him any longer.

But he can't stop thinking about them. They had never been resplendent like Gabriel's, and they didn't gleam as Michael's had, but they were _his_ —proof of the seraphim fire that burned in him. A gift from his father. They were his, even if they hadn't been beautiful.

(Dean said they were beautiful when Castiel wrapped them around him.)

He empties a bottle of Dean's whiskey and a bottle of pills, forcing his mind to become as numb as his body feels, but his heart beats like a caged bird—rapidly, erratically. He can fly again, laughing on his back on the cold, hard floor, arms outstretched.

But once the high passes, he begins to seize.

Chuck finds him unconscious when he comes to check on Sam, slaps him awake and forces his fingers down Castiel's throat. He gags on the taste of Chuck's hands.

He wakes up in Risa's cabin, in Risa's bed, which holds traces of Dean's scent in the folds of the pillow, concentrated in the center of the sheet where Castiel cries.

Chuck won't allow him out of the cabin and instructs Joseph to watch the door. Castiel is exhausted, scarcely able to keep his eyes open, but if he could only have his pills, everything would be alright. Just one, he promises, just so he can wake up.

“Just one,” he begs, but Chuck refuses.

Castiel sleeps for days. When he sleeps, he dreams; and when he dreams, it's of Dean with a croat's lifeless eyes.

* * *

Months pass. Sam doesn't wake up, and Dean doesn't come back.

It's December. There is a blanket of snow outside, softening the landscape. Castiel touches his fingertips to the window panes, fogged and beaded with condensation at their corners. He adjusts the space heater Chuck has brought, positioning it so the majority of the heat radiates toward Sam. Castiel is grateful to Jane for finding the heater, for turning it over to Chuck when she could have easily kept it for her own cabin.

The leader's brother is a symbol, Lucifer's empty vessel a sign of hope.

The heater makes the cabin tolerable. Castiel is able to feel his hands and his feet. He stuffs rags in holes in the floor and the walls to stop the drafts from whistling through during the night. He accepts a second carpet from Chuck, laying it next to the first. He considers layering them so that he has a softer place to rest, but side-by-side is more practical. Maybe he'll be able to cover the entire floor one day.

He cries. He cries for hours, overwhelmed by exhaustion, but he can't sleep. He doesn’t get enough to eat. His stomach demands food that Castiel won’t give it, and his mind ticks, ticks, ticks when he should close his eyes.

The nightmares continue. In them, Dean is always dead. Sometimes he opens his mouth like he's going to speak Castiel's name, but it roars out in a monster's groan.

When Dean rushes at Castiel to kill him, Castiel allows it.

[ ](http://jadstiel.tumblr.com)

* * *

Christmas passes and Dean's party hasn't returned. Chuck murmurs something about a memorial service as he lays a fresh blanket over Sam's bed. He looks at Castiel and darts his eyes away. When Castiel registers Chuck’s meaning, he goes cold all over and begins to shake.

The service is brief. Chuck says a few words from the steps of the cabin, but Castiel refuses to come outside. He sits with his back up against the door and weeps.

People stop by. They offer memories and condolences he doesn't want to accept. He keeps his eyes down and nods, wishing he could be in Dean's place and Dean in his.

That night, he steals into the supply shed and scans the neatly labeled shelves. Chuck is asleep, snores rattling from the corner where he's curled up on a cot. He won't know that Castiel has come here, won't miss a single bottle of Percocets. He takes them without making a note in the inventory, advancing the remaining bottles a position to conceal the theft before returning to his cabin.

For the first time since Dean left, he sleeps through the night and doesn't dream.

* * *

In the daylight, he sits by the window.

He pulls the chair underneath it and sits at Sam's bedside. Day after day he sits, swallowing the pills he nicked from the supply shed. What he's doing is wrong. He should care, but they make him forget that. He swallows pills and doesn't eat, but he doesn't feel hunger as the days go by.

He strokes Sam's hair when Sam moans in his sleep. He changes Sam's leg bag and coaxes him to eat, washes Sam's face and chest and arms, but never himself. Not himself. He whispers encouraging words he doesn't mean; why would Sam want to wake up to this world? It would have been kinder if Lucifer had let him die, and Castiel cannot.

He sits by the window, and Sam sleeps.

Castiel is useless. He has enough power to sense Sam's pain but not enough to alleviate it. He touches his fingertips to Sam's forehead and murmurs words of peace, hoping Sam can hear him and be soothed by words alone. He couldn't even heal Sam's wound, when it was such a simple injury and would've only require that he stitch together flesh and bone—nothing like the feat of repairing a soul. Sam's body had to heal on its own.

His mind is practically human, his tactical strategies a jumble in his memory. He's got no practical skills beyond driving and fucking. He learned to drive out of necessity; he learned to fuck when he couldn't sense Dean's longing anymore, when Dean stretching him open was how Castiel received his prayers. Neither of them do him any good. Everyone in camp is capable of operating a vehicle, and while sex is a potential source of revenue—he's received too many compliments on his vessel to believe they were all mere flattery—Dean outright rejected the idea when Castiel suggested it.

He gripped Castiel by his shirt and sneered, “Don’t you dare, you hear me? Cas, you’re not—” He let go and pointed an accusing finger. “Don’t you fucking _dare_.”

Castiel didn't understand Dean's anger. They were already through. Dean spent more and more time choking information out of demons with holy water than he did with Castiel, and ostensibly had no issue with Castiel sleeping with other members of the camp—why was this any different?

It would have given him purpose. He could have provided medication and necessities: a shirt that has never needed stitching, thick blankets, an unopened package of socks. If disease was what concerned Dean, there were precautions Castiel was willing to take, and nothing would be so disastrous as the virus that created the world they occupy.

He chose to believe that Dean stopped him out of love.

Dean isn’t here to stop him anymore, but his words do, the phantom tightness around his throat and the ghost of Dean hissing, “Don’t you ever—you asshole, don’t say shit like that to me.”

Castiel sits by the window and observes shifts in the world outside: the brown cast to the dead grass that has turned almost-black following the first melt; a once-massive spider web that clung through the winter, mere filaments that glint when sunlight pierces the overcast sky, like fragments of his grace—a reminder of what _was_.

He sits by the window.

Sometimes he feels nothing, and sometimes he experiences a sadness so profound it consumes him. Human emotions are erratic and impossible to control. Castiel wishes he couldn't feel them.

He sits by the window and waits to die.

He's sitting there the morning Sam opens his eyes.

* * *

Chuck locates a penlight among their medical supplies. The beam is weak, but it shines enough for them to verify that Sam's pupils react to light. He opens them for a few minutes at a time, though nothing registers on his face. If Sam sees them, if he's aware of his surroundings, it doesn't show.

Castiel reads to him. He takes back up the book of poetry he'd started to read months ago. Sometimes, he'll look up and find Sam looking at him. Sam's eyes are sunken in his face. They're ringed with dark circles. He's thin and pale, his hair stringy, cheekbones too pronounced above a patchy beard. But he's alive and awake.

He doesn't move much, though his eyes begin to track when Castiel walks across the cabin. Three days after Sam wakes up, Castiel brings him a glass of water and asks if Sam is thirsty. Sam blinks. He blinks when Castiel offers him broth, and he flinches when Castiel pulls back the sheet to check his leg bag.

“Sorry,” Castiel murmurs, tucking the covers around him. “I know it’s cold.”

Sam blinks.

Castiel smooths Sam's hair and switches to one of Dean's books. When he reads a humorous section, he chuckles, looking up to see a smile in the corner of Sam's mouth, crinkling around his eyes. Encouraged, Castiel reads to him until his throat is sore and he can't speak without a sip of water every other sentence.

Chuck suggests giving Sam jars of baby food. It's still good, more substantial than broth, and Sam is able to swallow it easily. Castiel feeds him as much as he's willing to eat, until he holds up the spoon and Sam squints.

“I’ll save it for later,” Castiel tells him and sets the jar on the windowsill to keep it cold.

He helps Sam to sit up so he can look outside, arranges pillows behind his back and drapes a blanket over his shoulders when he begins to shake. Castiel holds his hand when Sam cries and says what he thinks Dean might.

“It’s alright, Sam. I’ve got you. I won’t leave you.”

Sam is aware when he soils the bed, averting his eyes and frowning. Castiel efficiently cleans him up and resumes reading without a word. He washes Sam and gives him a fresh shirt, encouraging him to lie on his side so the skin on his back and legs can heal. Castiel reads him _Cat's Cradle_ and _Sirens of Titan_.

When he holds up the doodles in _Breakfast of Champions_ , Sam laughs. His voice is scratchy, his laughter more of a wheeze, but it gives Castiel hope. He smiles and continues reading.

* * *

Castiel comes to when the car stops moving. His head impacts the steering wheel, which he grips in a daze and catches his breath while he takes in his surroundings. He's on a stretch of road he doesn't recognize, facing an empty field. There is a forest beyond. He has no idea where he is, but it’s dark and there are human voices nearby.

His neck throbs. Castiel reaches a hand to it. He must have wrenched it during the accident. It's already stiffening, shooting pain up the left side of his neck and into his temple. There is a pounding behind his left eye, pounding in his sinus cavity. He works the muscles in his neck in an attempt at relief and unlatches his seatbelt.

His legs nearly give out when he tries to stand, but he makes his way through the knee-high grass, to the front of the vehicle to survey the damage. It's one of the Jeeps, nose-down in a ditch. Has he been sleepwalking? He doesn't remember leaving camp. He hasn't gone on a run since they retrieved Sam. Castiel finds purpose in caring for him.

The Jeep is stuck, but the damage doesn't look like enough to cripple it, if they can get it out. He shoves a shoulder against the grill but the car doesn't budge.

“Dean,” someone calls.

Dean? He recognizes the voice but the name escapes him. It’s a woman's voice. He hasn't heard it in a while. Someone jogs up behind him. He discerns the crunch of gravel under boots.

“Dean,” the voice says again—why is someone saying his name?

“What?” Castiel asks, confused.

“Help me push the car out.”

“What happened?”

“We need to get the Jeep out of this ditch. Okay?”

“How did I get here?” Castiel asks.

“Jesus,” she swears. When she rubs her face, she tilts it up enough that it’s visible in the moonlight.

“Laura,” he says in recognition.

Laura died on the supply run with Dean. This must be a dream. He's dreaming.

“Where are your keys?” she asks.

“Ignition,” he replies, sobering.

“You push, I’ll steer,” she says.

Castiel presses his hands to the hood while Laura shifts the car into reverse and steps on the gas. He pushes with all of his strength. The Jeep rocks backwards, but it’s not enough to free it. She tries again, until Castiel's arms are shaking from effort.

“Fuck,” he curses, smacking his palm against the hood.

He mops sweat from his forehead even though he's shaking with cold. The roar of a second engine hits his ears. Another Jeep pulls up alongside them and two men jump out. It's Gary and Rich, both lost on Dean's last party. They jump into the ditch on either side of him, and together, they push the car onto the road.

“How are you for fuel?” Laura asks.

“Almost out,” Rich replies.

“We’ll stop in the next town,” she says. She looks Castiel in the eye, and he realizes he’s supposed to say something.

“Yeah,” he says. “Okay.”

He climbs in the passenger's seat, reclining while the migraine continues to throb. There are flashes of light behind his eyelids. Laura steps on the gas. Beneath him, the Jeep rumbles and begins to roll. He hears the second engine rev and follow them.

The team is tired. They're hungry. They haven't slept in three days. That's why he fell asleep behind the wheel, why he lost control of the Jeep—he couldn't keep his eyes open any longer. Laura drives with both hands planted on the wheel, her eyes wide.

She shakes him awake outside of a dark convenience store and gets out of the car with a gun raised. He didn't realize he'd drifted off. From the color of the sky, it must be the middle of the night.

The road is quiet, its collection of broken vehicles masked by darkness. There are houses across the street, a small town perhaps. Not one has a light on, but it's nighttime, and he can pretend they're sleeping. The world isn't so different like this. It reminds him of a childhood on the road, stretched out in a cornfield with Sam watching the stars from the roof of the Impala.

Castiel blinks. He's never watched stars with Sam in a cornfield, but the memory is in his head, of the two of them lying side-by-side and no idea where their father is.

“It’s clear,” Laura shouts, waving to the second jeep. “Come on. We’re crashing here for the night.”

She drags him by the arm out of the Jeep, into the shell of the convenience store. He opens his eyes long enough to see a linoleum floor, empty glass cases that once held water and soda. Once they're all inside, Laura wraps a chain around the door handles to secure it for the night. She stretches out next to Castiel against the drink case.

Gary and Rich speak to him, but he drifts in and out of consciousness. He opens his mouth but can't make a sound. Laura forces his eyelid open with her thumb to check his pupils and shakes her head, instructing him to lie down. He's too dizzy to protest.

“I’ll take first watch,” she says. Someone cocks a gun. Castiel’s breathing grows deep.

...

He's aware of shuffling, like the scurry of animal feet.

“Laura?” he grunts but she doesn’t answer. He reaches out a blind hand but she isn’t next to him any longer. Gary and Rich are gone. His head still hurts, but he’s able to open his eyes and sit up. His neck is stiff, locked where he strained it. His eyes are nearly useless in the dark but he squints and concentrates.

A hunched figure is silhouetted against the glass door, examining the chain. For a moment, Castiel thinks it's Laura ensuring the door is locked. She must not have heard him call.

“Laura,” he says louder, belatedly realizing his mistake. She turns, but it’s instantly clear this thing isn’t Laura. Arms limp at its sides, it starts toward him unnaturally fast. He fumbles for his weapon, drawing it and firing two shots. The croat falls just a foot away, skull cracking when it hits the ground. Castiel gets to his feet and steps carefully around it, plugging it a third time to be sure.

Laura is dead on the floor beside the door. He exhales a silent prayer and shoots her once, watching as the blood seeps from the side of her head and darkens the floor. It's nearly black in the low light. He's careful not to step in it.

He doesn't see or hear his attacker. The blow comes from the side, from a croat he didn't see lingering behind the counter. It claws the side of his face before he ganks it, blasting it in the head and stumbling backward into the freezer case. _It's a dream_ , he tells himself. His face is hot and slick with blood, but it didn't bite him. He's sure it didn't bite him. He strikes his head against the glass door and blacks out.

* * *

“Dean?” Sam croaks, the first word from his mouth. He’s been awake for two weeks, communicating through facial expressions, but it’s not until Castiel hears him speak that he’s certain Sam’s mind is recovering.

He schools his face into calm and lays the book down while he decides how to answer. If he tells Sam the truth about Dean too soon, it might stall his recovery. It's best to wait until he's certain that Sam is alright and capable of handling the news. He smiles gently and touches Sam's forehead before offering him water.

“He’s on a supply run,” he lies, holding the glass to Sam’s lips as he drinks, supporting his neck with his free hand.

Sam drinks, taking awkward sips that dribble over his lip and spill onto his chest. Castiel dries him with a towel and sets the water aside.

“How long?” Sam whispers.

“A couple months,” Castiel says, rearranging the blankets. Sam blinks groggily and shakes his head.

“No, I mean, how long was I—”

He doesn't finish, but Castiel understands. He strokes Sam's cheek and tucks a strand of hair behind his ear.

“Two years,” he answers.

“Is that all?” Sam’s voice rings with disbelief. His lower lip trembles as he begins to gasp, heaving in breaths as he works himself into hysterics.

Castiel stays very still, holding Sam's hand as he cries. Eventually he settles and turns onto his side.

“Where are we?” he manages.

“We’re in Kansas.”

“Oh.”

“The world is greatly altered, but Lucifer is dead.”

“I know,” Sam gulps.

“Did you expel him?”

“I’m not sure. I remember hearing Dean’s voice—like an echo?” He stops to breathe, coughing and rubbing his eyes. Castiel squeezes his hand in reassurance. “Next thing I knew, I woke up here.”

“Chuck will be glad to see you.”

“I thought I saw him,” Sam says.

“He’s been running the camp since Dean...well, ever since Dean left.”

“Camp?”

“You’ll see it once you’re feeling better.”

“Alright,” Sam agrees, shifting. He puts a hand underneath the blankets and grimaces. “Can this come off? I need a shower.”

“The bath house is down the road. I’ll have to help you outside. Do you think you can stand?” Castiel speaks vaguely, trying not to make Sam uncomfortable.

“I don’t know. I think so.”

“Alright.” Castiel gets up for towels. “We have showers, but it’s too cold this time of the year.”

“What month is it?” Sam calls.

“January.” Dean’s thirty-sixth birthday would have been next Saturday. “There’s a wash basin,” he says. He brings Sam a towel and clean clothes. “You’ll get used to it.”

“Dean and I used to live out of a car.” Sam reddens as Castiel pulls the sheets back. Castiel disposes of the leg bag and follows the instructions to deflate the balloon. Sam angles his face away while he works.

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” Castiel assures him and removes the tubing, wraps it up and throws it away. He cleans Sam’s legs and takes the underpad away, then passes Sam the stack of clean clothes. He gives him privacy to change while he washes his hands.

“I can make something if you’re hungry,” he offers.

“I want to brush my teeth,” Sam says, smacking his lips. “Is this your cabin?”

“It’s where I live.” Castiel fishes in the cabinet for soup. He finds a can of chicken broth and sets it on the counter, takes out a banged-up pot and plugs in the single burner.

“Does Dean have one too?”

“Technically, this cabin is his,” Castiel says, searching for the can opener. He finds it next to a cracked wooden spoon. “But he doesn’t sleep here.”

It comes out with more bitterness than he intended. This isn't Sam's fault or anything he needs to worry about. Castiel's problems are his own, and his past with Dean is _his_ past, not Sam's. He stirs the broth.

“When you’re recovered, we’ll get you set up in your own,” he says, clearing his throat. He thinks of Risa’s empty cabin and the bed that smells like Dean.

They eat in silence. Sam's hands shake, rattling the spoon and spilling broth on the sheets. He looks apologetic, but Castiel remembers the stack of clean sheets he and the other Dean took from the hospital months ago.

“It’s fine,” he promises. Sam looks grateful. He finishes his bowl and half of Castiel’s, then asks about the bathroom.

Castiel finds Sam's shoes under the bed and helps him outside. Sam is unsteady on his feet, unable to support his own weight. He leans on Castiel down the stairs. They don't make it to the bathhouse. Sam relieves himself in the snow with a moan, zips his pants, and leans against the cabin's exterior.

“Give me a minute,” he says, rubbing his thighs with his palms.

Castiel is patient, content in the stillness. He waits until Sam holds out a hand, keeps an arm around his waist and guides him inside. Sam sits in the chair beside the window while Castiel changes the sheets.

“Where have you been sleeping?” he asks.

Castiel points to the rug, to the floor.

“Cas,” Sam admonishes, but Castiel just shrugs.

“Someone needed to stay with you,” he says.

“Look, I don’t have Dean’s hang-ups. That bed’s big. We can both fit.”

His words cause tears to spring into Castiel's eyes.

“Thank you,” he says around a lump in his throat. He pulls the sheets taut and folds the blanket across the base of the bed. “I should let Chuck know you’re awake.”

“Cas, if you need to do stuff, I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll get you a toothbrush,” Castiel says, getting his jacket. He slips outside and crosses the camp, knocking twice on Chuck’s door.

“It’s open,” Chuck calls.

Castiel finds him huddled in his cot under a blanket, looking at a page of numbers.

“Sam is talking,” he says.

“Since when?”

“About an hour ago,” Castiel tells him.

“How is he?” Chuck says, laying down the notebook. He stands up, fixing his clothes, but leaves the bed unmade.

“Better than I expected, but it hasn’t been long.”

“How did he take the news?”

“I didn’t tell him yet,” Castiel admits.

“Do you think that’s a good idea?” Chuck asks, frowning.

“I don’t know what Lucifer did to him. I said that Dean is away getting supplies.”

“Do you want me to talk to him?”

“No, I’ll do it,” Castiel says and takes a breath to wall off his emotions. “I need basic items for him.”

“Oh, sure,” Chuck says, walking briskly to the shelves. He takes down a toothbrush, a bar of soap, and a washcloth. “Razor?” he asks.

“I think so,” Castiel says. Chuck adds one to the pile.

“Listen, Cas...” Chuck marks the inventory change on the notepad hanging from a piece of twine. “You wouldn’t know anything about a couple missing bottles of oxycontin, would you?”

Castiel's heart beats faster. He tongues a rough spot inside his cheek where he has bitten it before.

“Look, I get it,” Chuck says quietly, laying a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “I can’t imagine how you must feel, but you gotta write this stuff down, man.”

Castiel accepts the pile of items. His cheeks are hot with embarrassment, but Chuck doesn't press the issue further.

“Do you want to come see him?” Castiel asks.

“Yeah, I’ll come back with you,” Chuck says.

On the walk, they agree to keep the news of Sam waking up to themselves for a few days. until he's feeling stronger and Castiel has told him about Dean. Sam brightens when Chuck walks into the cabin, sitting up straighter. They speak for a few minutes, until Sam's voice begins to crack.

“When you’re ready for something to do, let me know,” Chuck says with a grin. “Got plenty to keep you busy.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Sam says. “Thanks, Chuck.”

“No problem,” Chuck says. He gives a half-wave on his way out.

Sam brushes his teeth while Castiel fetches a bowl of fresh water. Sam can't stand for more than a few seconds on his own, so he sits in the chair Castiel drags across the room and lathers soap in his beard. It takes a long time, but he's diligent with the razor, moving it carefully over the contours of his face. He buffs it with a towel.

“Do you think you could—?” he asks, pointing to his hair. Castiel smiles and instructs Sam to lean over the basin. He pours water on his head and rubs the soap over it, scrubbing lightly at his scalp, then rinsing it clean.

“Oh, god,” Sam moans as Castiel towels his hair dry. “I feel like a million bucks.”

Castiel laughs and hangs the towel to dry. Sam finger combs the hair away from his forehead and nods to the soap wrapper.

“Never thought I’d be glad to use this cheap stuff.”

“We have hundreds,” Castiel confides. “Most of the stores got raided early on, but Jane—it was her idea to hit the hotels for basic supplies.”

“How bad is it?” Sam asks.

“Worldwide, as far as we know.”

“Shit.”

“Of course, with Lucifer dead, it might be possible to control it.”

“How?”

“Eliminate the infected,” Castiel says. “Once the virus stops spreading, everything else can be rebuilt.”

He has a split-second image of Dean with a croat's eyes, of pumping rounds into him. He shudders, touching the seam of his shirt. He rubs it between his fingers for strength.

“Sam,” he begins, swallowing.

“Yeah?”

“About Dean.” His eyes are wet before he gets the words out.

Sam responds slowly. “What about him?”

“He left, not long after we found you. He was supposed to be back months ago. We don’t have confirmation, but he’s been gone long enough that...”

He can't say it.

“Oh,” Sam says, sobering.

“There was a service.” Castiel wipes his eyes. “Last month. We’re planning to construct a memorial in the spring.”

Sam nods toward his lap.

“It’s possible we’re wrong,” Castiel says, though he doesn’t believe it.

Sam is quiet. Castiel helps him to bed, suggesting he lie on his stomach. He sits on the edge and strokes Sam's hair, feels each convulsion as Sam cries.

After a while, he asks, “Would you like me to read to you?”

Sam shakes his head against the pillow, so Castiel sits with him in silence until Sam falls asleep.

* * *

Sam cries off and on for several days. On a Wednesday, he wakes up and asks to see the camp inventory list. He determines they're too low on canned goods to make it to spring, so Chuck arranges a day run to Bonner Springs. They haven't hit that Walmart yet, and with the town's population small, they're banking on it being ignored by other survivor groups.

The team assembles in Castiel's cabin to go over details. Chuck traces the route on a yellowing map he spreads across the foot of the bed.

“What about schools?” Sam suggests. He’s sitting in the chair by the window, covered in blankets, but his eyes are clear and focused on the map. “Office buildings? They wouldn’t have much, but if we hit a few of them...”

“I don’t see how we’re going to be able to keep this up,” Chuck admits, shaking his head. “We might have to head East.”

“East?” Sam repeats.

“Out East, it’s a military zone,” Jane tells him. “Government’s trying—”

“Failing,” says Joseph.

“ _Trying_ ,” Jane continues, glaring at him, “to create a safe zone east of the Mississippi.”

“I’ll take my chances here,” Joseph huffs. “Texas had the right idea seceding.”

“Congress bombed Houston,” Jane snaps. “The whole city’s flattened.”

“You think it’s better, what’s happening here?”

“Guys, we still need food,” Chuck cuts in. “Guard’s not delivering anymore and we can’t count on Canada. Word is they stopped imports to the U.S.”

“Then the camp’s got to be self-sustaining,” Sam says. “If we’re not leaving and there’s no more food being trucked out, we’ve got to make our own.”

“There’s never been time,” Castiel sighs. “But you’re right. What do we have in terms of supplies?”

“Not much,” Chuck admits. “Some seed packets. We’ve never tried growing anything.”

“It’s too cold,” Joseph protests, motioning toward the snow.

“We can start them indoors,” Sam argues. “But we need to hit home improvement stores. We need fertilizer. Tools. Topsoil. Lumber. I mean, a few rolls of insulation and we could make these cabins a lot warmer.”

Chuck's eyes dart to Castiel, who nods.

“Alright,” Chuck agrees.

The team returns with a meager selection of canned goods, but both Jeeps overflow with gardening supplies, sheets of plywood, and pressure-treated lumber. Castiel agrees to repurpose the planning cabin as a temporary greenhouse until one can be constructed. Sam is eager to get started—Castiel imagines he's desperate for a distraction—and helps him walk there while the cars are being unloaded.

They clear the table. Castiel doesn't think they've used it since the last meeting Dean held here, the night before they led the caravan to Lucifer. There's an irony to Sam standing in this cabin now, and Dean being the one gone.

Sam sorts through the new supplies and spends an hour reading the back of each seed packet, sorting them into piles, determining which ones can be started indoors and which require a cold frame. He'll construct one once the snow melts, he says.

“How do you know so much about gardening?” Castiel asks, turning a packet of wildflowers over in his hand. Sam shrugs.

“Jess was into it.”

Castiel hums and watches Sam work. He would've liked to tend a garden with Dean. He fetches Sam a jug of water for starter pots, which Sam lines up in black plastic trays. He shows Castiel how to poke seeds into each pot, then sets the trays by the window.

“It’s a little cold in here.” He rubs his arms, looking down at the trays with dim pride. “But we’ll see.”

* * *

Sam's legs are still weak, but with Castiel's assistance, they hike across the snowy camp on Dean's birthday, to the area near the perimeter where Baby sits rusting.

Seeing her condition is always a shock. The windshield cracked first: a rock struck them on the interstate south of Sioux Falls. Dean drove despite the expanding network of cracks, intent on making Lawrence before nightfall. They found the camp, and they found an auto glass shop. Dean swapped out Baby's windshield, but she wasn't a practical car, not around croats—too hard to get in and out, too low to the ground. They raided the Jeep dealership a couple months later, and Dean parked Baby beneath a tree.

A round struck the driver's window when Risa spotted a croat near the perimeter-there had been a time attacks were common. But the Impala made a good blind on a cold night watch. They'd gotten high in the back too many times to count and fucked on her leather seats.

Dean stopped visiting her after Detroit, let the weeds grow tall around her wheels. Her tires are dry rotted.

Castiel and Sam stand next to the car for a long time, until Sam says in a thick voice that he's ready to go inside. He doesn't touch the car, but Castiel lays his hands on her hood.

They toast Dean with a glass of whiskey. Sam only takes a little. He's still thin, though he's begun to put on weight. They clink their glasses together.

“That sonofabitch,” Sam mutters, swiping at his eyes.

“He loved you.”

Sam lets a long breath out through his mouth and finishes his drink in a swallow.

“I never liked this stuff,” he admits, wiping his lips. “You know, I think Dean only drank it because of our dad.”

“He did a lot of things because of your father.”

“Yeah. Were you guys close?”

Castiel’s throat tightens. “Not in the end.” He can’t help the way his face crumples. He hides it in his hand.

“What happened?”

It's a minute before Castiel finds his voice, but instead of answering, he gets up and rolls a joint. It takes the edge off. If Sam is surprised, he doesn't say anything, just watches him from his seat next to the window. The sun is out now; it glints off of the snow, bright like the jacket over the mirror.

“Chuck wants me to take you outside more,” Castiel says.

Sam sighs, touching the edges of the whiskey bottle. “Okay.”

* * *

“So we don’t actually know for certain that he’s...”

Sam leans against Castiel's shoulder as they walk along the camp's main road. It passes most of the cabins before turning into the woods, then narrows and leads to Lake Chitaqua, which they use for bathing in warm weather. Dean said this was a scout camp once, where children came for the summer. It's strange that humans play at survival.

“No,” Castiel answers. “But it’s unlikely he’s still alive.”

“But he _could_ be.”

Sam squeezes Castiel's forearm. He turns his head, looking down at Castiel with an earnest expression. Sam is so young and has endured so much. Castiel smiles at him gently.

“If it helps you to think that.”

They crunch through the snow. It falls in heavy, fat flakes that settle in his hair and on his cheeks. The tips of his ears are cold and beginning to sting, but Sam looks happy to be outside. Their daily walks are helping to improve his muscle strength. He can walk across the cabin with the cane Chuck found, though stairs are still too much on his own. When they walk together, Sam leaves the cane behind and leans on Castiel.

“Don’t you?” Sam asks after a while. “I mean, Cas—if anyone could survive out there, it’s Dean.”

Castiel tilts his face toward the sky, feels the cold wind on his face and the brush of snowflakes. He tries to hear them falling, discern them settling on tree limbs, on cabin roofs, but it's nearly silent. He can't hear the angels anymore.

He pats Sam's arm.

“I wish I had your faith.”

* * *

Sam takes over their reading sessions. He lies on his back, book in both hands above his face, while Castiel leads his physical therapy. He bends Sam's knees toward his chest, then extends them while Sam experiments with different voices and makes himself laugh.

They finish Dean's Vonnegut collection and borrow from other members of the camp: a thick geological history of the Earth, a woman's memoir about apiculture. Castiel produces a few of Risa's novels, which Sam reads with abandon, even providing obscene noises during the intimate moments.

It's a pleasant routine. When they've completed his stretches, Sam rolls onto his stomach and Castiel gets high across the end of the bed. Sam didn't say anything about it for the first couple weeks, but today he props up on an elbow and scowls.

“Cas, why’re you doing this to yourself?”

Castiel exhales and waves the smoke away with a lazy hand.

“Makes Earth tolerable.”

“I don’t just mean the pot. You’re really _different_ , man.”

Castiel shrugs. “A lot changed.”

“You mean the angels leaving?”

He takes another drag instead of responding, feels the burn in his lungs before blowing it out. The first time he tried smoking, he coughed for days afterwards, but it was easier the second time and the third.

“ _And_ that,” he replies.

“Cas.” Sam sits upright and folds his hands on his lap. “What happened with you and Dean? I mean, his stuff is still here. You two obviously lived together at one point, and the way you talk about him...well, it doesn’t take a genius to figure this out.”

There are dead insects trapped in the remains of a spider web on the ceiling, and Castiel feels caught in it.

“Look,” Sam continues. “I get it. I was a mess when Jess died. Dean could tell you. I didn’t want to do anything. But you can’t let it kill you. You’re no good to any of these people dead.”

Castiel takes a long drag and holds it, then blows the smoke out through his mouth. He shuts his eyes and begins to speak.

“Dean ended things two years ago, just after you...”

He waves a hand in the direction of the white jacket.

“Oh,” says Sam.

“Last summer, Zachariah—my superior, for all intents and purposes—sent a younger version of your brother here from 2009. He was with us for days, until we recovered you. He helped take care of you, and I...” Castiel breaks off laughing, but it stutters into a cry. “Your brother was so different, and this Dean was still—”

He's embarrassed by the crack in his voice.

“Cas,” Sam says gently. Castiel takes a minute to breathe and compose himself.

“After Zachariah sent him back,” he continues calmly, “Dean was upset—about you, about us, and we, uh. Reconciled. For a night.” He pauses and licks his lips, leaving Sam to fill in the details for himself. “He left the next morning without a word. That was the last time I saw him.”

“He didn’t tell you he was _leaving_?”

Castiel lolls his head left and right against the comforter and hears the sob escape as he folds in on himself. Sam takes the joint from Castiel's fingers and lays a blanket over him.

“Cas, I’m so sorry.”

He places a hand on Castiel's shoulder, then picks up the book again and begins to read. His voice is soothing. Castiel doesn't pay attention to the words, just the way they rumble out of Sam's throat. Chapter by chapter, his eyes grow heavy and his breathing evens out, lulling him until he's floating.

* * *

He comes to in an unfamiliar space. It takes a minute to get his bearings, eyes scanning over stacks of empty shelves, a floor strewn with trash and mud. The lights are broken overhead.

Someone moans—it sounds just a few feet away, but Castiel is barely able to turn his head for the pain. He brings a hand to it, wincing when he touches a gash on his cheek. It's hot to the touch, likely infected, throbbing all the way into his eye socket. His neck is stiff and he isn't sure he can walk.

He doesn't remember coming here or becoming injured, but they must be on a run, which means Chuck or Jane is here somewhere. The moan didn't belong to either one of them. It continues in the background.

He flexes his good leg, preparing to push up on it, but stops when he becomes aware of a pressure around his thigh. He glances down to see a thigh holster like the one Dean used to wear (the same black nylon, same wear along the edges) strapped to his leg. He runs a finger over the gun. It's not his usual; he prefers the shotgun, and the hand—

The hand isn't his, fingernails too rounded, joints too defined. But he knows this hand as well as his own and goes cold. He stumbles to his feet, limping toward the broken window.

Dean's gaunt reflection stares at him from the glass, his left eye swollen closed, face caked with blood.

* * *

Castiel opens his eyes.

It's light in the cabin. Sam is snoring in the chair beside the window. The book is on the floor. Castiel gets out of bed quietly and rinses his mouth. He finds the rest of the joint on the windowsill and pockets it, slips on shoes and one of Dean's old coats and goes outside to smoke.

It's cold, but the snow has stopped falling. He lights the joint with a match, holding it to his lips while he tucks the matchbook in his pocket, but he doesn't inhale. Sam's words ring in his head.

_Why are you doing this to yourself?_

The answer is Dean. The answer has always been Dean.

Dean is the reason he rebelled. Dean is the reason he chose to fall, the reason he stayed behind when his brothers and sisters left. Dean's impression on his grace was so indelible, Castiel could not extract him from his very essence.

That essence is faded. Castiel is mortal, and Dean is gone.

He takes a deep breath. Against the shivering in his core, he pitches the joint into the snow.


	3. part three

The table beside the window in the planning cabin is laden with eight-inch tomato plants, and pots of beans and squashes coiling around squat lattices. In a few weeks, it will be warm enough to transfer the tomatoes outside into the newly prepared garden plots.

The old training field is partitioned into neat rectangles, with raised sides and chicken wire to keep out varmints. Sam has plans for corn in early April, once they're certain the threat of frost has passed. Corn is easy to grow and will tolerate the summer heat. They'll build the greenhouse before fall.

Sam sits in Dean's old chair. Castiel falls into his usual seat. Across the cabin, Jane stands next to Chuck, against the rough wall. Joseph is stretched out on the floor, legs crossed in front of him. They meet like this on Mondays.

“A school?” Castiel repeats, quirking an eyebrow. Sam laughs and shifts in his chair, rocking back on its legs.

“End of the world or not, people are gonna have kids, Cas. That’s just human nature.”

“There are only two kids in camp,” Joseph pipes up. “God only knows how long they’ll stay.”

“While they’re here, it’s our responsibility to educate them,” Sam argues. “We need a program, and not just for the kids. Everyone in this camp should be taught basic gardening and sewing and cooking. We can teach carpentry. We can teach—hell, we can teach hunting.”

He catches Castiel's eye, and Castiel grins before looking down at his lap.

“I agree,” Jane says. “This cabin could be multipurpose. Plants aren’t getting in the way of anything. We could hold classes here.”

“Alright, that’s settled,” Sam says. “Let’s put up a sheet; everyone can mark what they have some expertise in. We’ll go from there. Anything else?”

There is a chorus of murmurs. Jane shakes her head. Sam drums his hands on the table and dismisses them, but he and Castiel hang back.

“Got something for you,” Sam says. “Come on.”

He leads them to an overgrown area against the edge of the forest, a good distance from the cabins. There is a tall stained-glass window leaning against a tree. Sam motions to it with a smug expression, but Castiel frowns.

“What is this?”

“Found it on the run yesterday,” Sam says. “I don’t know. Seemed like something you would like.”

The window is clearly from a church, rising to a gothic arch. The wood is weather-worn, but none of the panes have broken. Castiel runs a finger over the leaded glass, over the pale-green rectangles surrounded by vibrant stripes of blue. His stomach goes sour.

“It’s...beautiful,” he says.

“This would be a pretty good place for a church,” Sam adds casually, though the topic is anything but.

Castiel frowns. “I see.”

“It could help people, Cas.”

“What’s the point?”

“Just think about it. Please? Do you want to grab lunch?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“You’re never hungry.” The pleasantness in Sam’s voice falls away. He takes a deep breath before adding, “Is he worth this?”

When Castiel doesn't answer, Sam sighs and leaves him next to the woods. Castiel appreciates what Sam is trying to do, but discussing faith with humans is futile.

Sam likely went straight to the mess for lunch and will head home afterwards, so Castiel walks the trail to the lake to give them both space. This time of the year, the trail is muddy, strewn with slick, decaying leaves that make the air pungent. Mud sticks to his boots. They're an old pair of Dean's he dug out from under the bed, a size too big but warmer than sandals. He keeps his hands in his pockets as he side-steps a fallen branch, avoids a low wet area. Bags of sand and some crushed gravel would give the trail stability. He'll broach that at the next meeting.

The beach is small, most of the camp's sand eroded away, but there is a smooth area away from the water's edge where Castiel kneels. He touches the remains of a fire pit: charred wood, blackened earth, a burned liquor bottle. The label isn't worn enough for it to be one of theirs, but it stirs the memory of a bonfire several years ago, of touching Dean's hand in the dark.

The dock looks significantly worse than last season, battered by winter storms. The ash-gray boards are bowed and warped. He'll need to replace several now that they have the materials on hand. One of the canoes bobs in the water; the other is partially submerged. Castiel tests the dock with half of his weight. It holds. He walks to the edge and stands looking out over the water.

Dean once dreamed of a lake like this. Castiel visited him there. He never forgot it. There was little beauty left in the world, but when they found this camp, when Castiel first walked with Dean to the edge of this dock, he was happy that Dean could have this.

If he had Dean's ashes, this is where he would spread them.

He bows his head and offers a prayer. Maybe it's meaningless, but it feels like the right thing to do. He prays that Dean's soul is at peace, that they've forgiven each other, that he'll be fortunate enough to see Dean again once he's done with this life.

Thunder rolls in the distance, a low and comforting rumble. The air crackles and smells like rain. Before heading inside, he locates a tarp and drapes it around the window to keep it protected from the impending storm.

* * *

Sam plants the tomatoes during the first week of April when there is a break in the cold weather. Castiel helps him transfer them into the largest of the garden beds and secure them with metal cages. They plant the squash next to a section of wood fencing for it to grow up and over. The beans hug tall stakes.

They should be fine for food this year. The camp's surrounding woods are plentiful in acorns and squirrel meat, a deer if they're fortunate. The lake teems with fish and will provide them with potable water.

“We can boil and bottle it,” Sam says, then mutters something about filters and sterilization on his way out the door.

Sam will be gone most of the day, so Castiel pulls the jacket away from the mirror and adds it to the laundry basket. After a moment of hesitation, he raises his eyes to study his own reflection.

It's wasted and paler than he remembers—sickly, if he had to put a word to it, like his grief has seeped through his skin and stained him with its bleakness. He lifts the hem of his shirt and studies the ladder of his ribs, the unnatural concave of his stomach. He puts a hand to his belly and attempts to push outward, but it stays flat. He appears no more alive than a croat; the only difference is his eyes still hold a spark of life.

It was simple to ignore when he couldn't see himself, but Sam is right. He can't go on like this. He strips the sheets from the bed and balls them up on top of the basket.

The lake won't be swimming temperature until high summer, but it's warm enough that he can wade in up to his ankles to wash the bedding. He swirls the sheets in the cold water, releasing months of filth. Castiel got used to sleeping on waxy sheets years ago, but he relishes the feel of them clean against his skin and anticipates crawling into bed later. He hangs the sheets to dry on the lines strung between two strong oaks.

He leaves the white suit for last, picking it up carefully to avoid touching the stain. He submerges it. Dried blood requires a long soak, but he has time. He weighs it down with a rock and lies on the dock to eat.

The new pieces of wood stand out in honey tones against the weathered gray planks. He bites off a piece of jerky and sucks on it, tucking it in his cheek. He folds his arms behind his head and watches the clouds.

Sam is at a swap today. He and Chuck have organized a lot of them lately, coming back with furniture and kitchen supplies, clothes and books and personal care items. Chuck jokes the camp inventory looks like a home goods store. Croat populations in surrounding cities are diminished, some extinct. Sometimes a team returns with only a few rounds missing. There hasn't been a threat the camp since Sam arrived.

They're busy reinforcing cabin roofs in anticipation of the spring rainstorms. Hammering is audible in the distance, a steady _thwack thwack thwack_.

Sam is going to take Risa's cabin once the others are in good shape. Castiel will miss him when they don't live together anymore. Sam has provided a distraction and the companionship Castiel craved, but it's not right to deny him his own space. Sam feels guilty about leaving—that's plain from his expression whenever the subject comes up, the way he avoids looking Castiel in the eye—but he's excited. Castiel can see that too.

Rustling signals someone else coming up the trail, approaching the lake. Castiel lifts his head. It's Jane with a laundry basket against her hip. She raises her chin to acknowledge him, then settles a little further down the bank.

The sun warms him through. He hasn't felt this warm in months, no more numbness in his hands or feet. He swallows the jerky and bites off another piece, working it slowly in his back teeth.

It tastes like salt. Chuck killed the deer a few weeks ago. It fed the camp for a week, steaks the first few nights, then stew made from the bones. The taste is a little wild, but it's good with enough spices. They dehydrated a good deal of the meat for use on missions. They'll do the same for next winter, dry meat and some of the produce so there is plenty to eat during the cold months. Sam says the high salt levels are bad for blood pressure, but it's better than starving.

Castiel gets up and wades into the water. He scrubs at the blood stain on the jacket, rubbing the rich fabric against itself. Lucifer had exceptional taste. The blood doesn't come out entirely, but it fades, leaving behind a pink splotch and a pencil-thin outline around the tear. It will be nothing to sew closed.

“Leave it for a few hours,” Jane calls, elbow deep in her wash.

“Thanks.”

“You look better,” she comments after a minute. “Like you put on a couple pounds. Wasn’t sure you’d make it through the winter.”

He forces a smile.

During the hike, he mulls over what Jane said. It bothers him. It shouldn't; she's not speaking in hyperbole. He could have died, probably would have if Sam hadn't intervened. He's ashamed, he supposes, of being so selfish.

The trail takes him around the back of camp. He walks along the perimeter, intent on returning to the cabin, but the weather is fair. He doesn't get as much exercise now that Sam can get around on his own, so he takes a walk by himself. He passes his cabin and the shower facility, waving to Joseph and Caleb, a newcomer out of Hays they recovered last week. They're busy fixing Joseph's porch railings.

Castiel kicks at the dirt as he passes Risa's cabin and doesn't look in the windows.

Baby is rusting beneath her tree. It's a horrible sight, almost as bad as if Dean's body lay decaying. He picks a branch off of her hood and brushes away leaves, leaning down to peer through the water-spotted window.

The interior is dirty, but she's not beyond repairing. Dean has brought her back from worse. Castiel once rebuilt a human body, maybe—he's not a mechanic, but it would be a nice tribute, to try.

He goes for a bucket and water, finds a sponge and lugs it all to where she stands, sloshing water onto the hood and rubbing gentle circles. Dean would probably use a special cleaner. Dean would undoubtedly tell Castiel he’s doing this wrong. It makes him smile to think of Dean reprimanding him as Castiel washes his car, how he’d say, “Dude, no, you gotta—” and lay a hand over Castiel’s, crowd up behind him. Show him what to do.

He works away years of grime: insects and bird shit and dried tree sap, picking at it with his fingernails, rubbing until her hood is a solid stretch of black again. She's dented and scratched, but recognizable. The water grows muddy, but he works it over her windshield, over her bumper. He wipes down her headlights and her trunk, until his shoulders burn from the effort and he has to stop. She'll need washing the next time birds roost overhead, but she looks better for now. It's a shame they don't have anywhere to keep her safe, but there are more pressing issues.

The hot water is on in the bath house, so he grabs a quick shower and lathers his hair with shampoo. Sam recovered a crate of it. He's careful to use only a little, massaging it into his scalp. The lather is thick and luxurious. When he rinses, he feels reborn.

He's starving when he gets back to the cabin, but he feels oddly invigorated and spends time cleaning. He hauls the rug outside and hangs it over the railing to air out, beats it with a broom to release dirt. He sweeps the cabin floor and lights a candle to freshen the air, keeping the door propped open to clear away the heaviness of winter. He sweeps behind the chairs and underneath the bed. He sweeps the cobwebs from the ceiling. He goes through his drawers and puts on fresh pants, tossing his into the mending pile.

Dean used to do the bulk of the sewing, knew how to get his stitches tight, but Castiel tries to mimic the way he remembers Dean's hands moving. His stitches are sloppy, but he repairs the hole in his jeans and sews the crotch together, reattaches a button to one of Dean's shirts. He tears the thread with his teeth and tugs on his work. It's ugly but it holds.

He meditates for a while, seated outside in the sunlight, then fetches the sheets and jacket before dark, leaving the jacket outside to dry.

Sam comes home smelling like the outdoors.

“Hey, Cas,” he says, stopping inside the front door. He looks around and makes an impressed face. “Looks good in here.”

“Spring cleaning,” Castiel informs him. “How was the swap?”

“Awesome,” Sam tells him. “We’ve got enough roofing supplies to do the whole camp twice, and we found more two by fours.”

Castiel finishes making the bed while Sam cleans his face and hands. An idea strikes him.

“Sam?” he calls.

“Yeah?”

“How much wood is there?”

“A lot,” Sam says. “We filled the trailer. Why?”

“It’s not practical,” Castiel says, changing his mind.

“What isn’t?”

Castiel shakes his head. “The Impala. I thought if we constructed a lean-to, we could keep her dry.” Sam is quiet, so Castiel hurries to add, “Like I said, it’s not practical.”

“Where were you thinking? Where she’s sitting now?”

Castiel tilts his head to think. “Is it possible to move her?”

“I don’t see why not. We have enough people. You want her next to the cabin?”

“Would you mind?”

“Not at all,” Sam says. “Once we’re done unloading, we’ll push her over here.”

“Do you need help unloading?”

“Yeah, if you want.” Sam squeezes Castiel’s shoulder before pulling him into a hug. “You look like you got some sun today. You’ve got color in your face.”

“I did laundry,” Castiel dismisses, quietly pleased. He follows Sam outside.

They agree to store the wood in Risa's cabin where it's least likely to get wet. Sam sets a few pressure-treated planks aside, a couple sheets of plywood.

“Should be enough to cover her,” he says.

It takes five of them to push the car from her resting spot to the road, guide her along the gravel and onto the grass. She rolls to a stop along the cabin's side, out of direct sunlight. The others leave them alone. Sam lays a hand on her hood and smiles. He rests a hand on Castiel's back as they head to the mess for dinner.

Castiel weeps that night as they're lying in bed, between clean sheets. He cries out of resurrected grief and a terrible longing that he buries in the thin pillow, in Sam's shoulder when he offers an arm.

* * *

In his dream, the Jeep won't start.

The growling is getting nearer—there are three, maybe four croats moving together. At least he still has the cover of darkness. Castiel has time to get away if he can get the car started, but when he turns the key again, the engine doesn't turn over. He curses, leaving the key in the ignition, and scans for the safest area to take refuge. He'll have to wait for the croats to move on before he can figure out what's wrong with the car, get it started or find a replacement.

He drags himself into the town, ducking into shadows when the croats come near. He spends the night in an abandoned two-story house, every lock and deadbolt in place. The first floor is strewn with household carnage left by looters. The refrigerator hangs open, its interior dark and somehow foreboding. He turns away from it.

Castiel cowers in an upstairs bedroom, wrapped in musty linens he pulled from a closet. He wraps them over his back and around his knees, tucking his face against them, but he still shivers. He runs his fingers over the painful swelling on his cheek, murmuring, “I need you to hear me, man. I need you to hear me,” over and over until he can’t speak anymore.

* * *

Castiel becomes a beekeeper by accident. During a morning perimeter sweep, he perceives buzzing emanating from a tipped-over clay pot. He bends to examine it and discovers a hive thriving inside.

He's careful not to disturb it, alerting Chuck to its location—he doesn't want anyone trying to exterminate them. He locates a pair of gloves and carries the pot across camp. He positions it near the garden so the bees can pollinate the crops, but far enough from the closest cabin that they shouldn't be a nuisance. It's calming to visit them every day, to rest a hand near the entrance of the pot and watch them settle on his knuckles, crawl over his fingers. If he can keep them healthy, the bees will produce honey and beeswax, which they can use for candles. The next time they make a trip to Kansas City, he'll go to the library for a book on candle making.

Daffodils poke through the soil and stretch their leaves skyward. The longest stem turns fat and yellow at the tip, opening into a cheerful flower that bends toward the ground during the rains. They grow in clusters along the edge of the woods and at the foot of Castiel's cabin, where someone planted them years ago—stark green against the muddy landscape. The grass and woods are soaked in the gray and brown tones of a world just emerged from winter.

The clusters are more dense than they were last year. They'll be denser still next season, untouched by the virus. The notion comforts him.

He and Sam make a perimeter check to look for weaknesses in the fencing. Castiel holds his arm out of habit. It's pleasant to touch someone and to be touched. Sam is gracious with his personal space, hugging Castiel on bad days or ruffling his hair. It helps. Sam's hands soothe the ache for connection that he used to fill with decadence. His touches are chaste and meaningful. It's that, Castiel realizes, tightening his grip on Sam's bicep as he sidesteps a fallen branch, which had been missing.

The bees’ activity increases as the days grow hotter at summer's approach, so Castiel consults his book and goes about trying to construct a proper hive. He shows the image plates to Joseph, who grunts and mutters something rude but says he'll think about it. He presents Castiel with measurements and helps him cut the wood to size.

Building the hive occupies his days. It's crude when he's done, but he finishes it within two weeks. He rubs beeswax on the inside and places the hive near the fallen pot, facing south.

The bees don't immediately move in, but he begins to spot them flying near the entrance and feels a jolt of satisfaction. When he checks on the hive, they sting him occasionally. The sting sites redden and swell. Scratching doesn't alleviate the burn, but he feels worse for the bees that die soon after, oblivious to his attempt to help, aggravated by his presence. They're prepared to die in order to stab his hand away, like Dean in that barn.

* * *

Castiel goes along on the next supply run, intent on finding a library and possibly an automotive shop. He asks to drive. It's been months since he took the wheel, the last time when he and Dean raided the hospital for supplies nearly ten months ago. The steering wheel is familiar in his hands, a sense of freedom afforded in the way the engine responds to his foot on the accelerator.

“Dunno what we’re going to do when we run out of fuel. We couldn’t find lye last time,” Sam is saying, scratching his head. Wind whips hair around his face.

“Horses?” Castiel suggests, not intending it as humor, but Sam laughs.

Kansas City is in ruins, but they navigate to Minnesota Avenue and park outside the library. They don't see a single croat on the ride in, but Castiel shoulders his shotgun out of habit and gestures to Sam. They get out of the car and signal to Chuck to wait with the other vehicle.

The street is deserted. They walk up the steps and inside.

The library's condition is what Castiel expects: gaping shelves and evidence of fire, nests of blankets between the stacks in the main room. The carpet is soiled. Overhead, light fixtures hang precariously but still function. Castiel sidesteps them, lest they fall.

The library smells damp. The air's no longer working—probably a trip in the main breaker. The computers are off too. Without the index, it takes a while to locate non-fiction books, longer to find a specific topic, but he finds a selection of on candle making and tucks two under his arm. Sam finds books on gardening, and Castiel selects a few cookbooks and a guide to basic carpentry.

They hear scratching as they cross the main room on their way out. Castiel throws a protective arm in front of Sam, dropping the tote of books and reaching for his gun. He aims in the direction of the sounds and advances, finger playing on the trigger as he rounds a stack.

A skinny brown dog looks and him and wags its tail. The dog is small, probably still a puppy by its size.

“What is it?” Sam asks as Castiel lowers his gun.

“A dog,” he says. He kneels down and holds out a hand. The dog jogs forward, licking at his fingers. He takes a piece of jerky from his pocket and holds it out. The dog backs away a step and drops the jerky on the ground to sniff, then gulps it down.

“It’s so skinny,” Sam murmurs, joining him on the floor. The dog sniffs at Castiel’s fingers and whines, thumping its tail so hard its whole back-end moves with it.

“It might be beneficial to have a dog in camp,” Castiel says. “For morale if nothing else.”

“Always wanted a dog,” Sam says, watching as Castiel feeds it another piece of jerky. The dog swallows it without chewing. “I think it’s a lab.”

“Do you think we can get it in the Jeep?” Castiel asks.

“If you keep feeding it, it’ll probably follow you,” Sam says. “Give it another piece.”

Castiel does. They stand up and walk a few feet away, retrieving the bag of books. The dog trots after them and whines. Castiel feeds it more, dropping jerky like metaphorical breadcrumbs. The dog follows them all the way to the Jeep. Sam opens the door. The dog hesitates on the sidewalk, hunkering down, then leaps into the back. It lies down and tucks its face into its paws.

“I’d better give it a bath in case it has fleas,” Sam says, buckling his seatbelt. “Guess it can have the run of the camp. It’s not going anywhere with the fence. You think it’ll be okay sleeping outside for a couple weeks?”

“Sam, the dog can stay with us until your cabin is ready,” Castiel says, smile tugging the corner of his mouth.

“You sure?”

Castiel rolls his eyes and starts the car.

They find an automotive store. Castiel roots through the shelves until he turns up car shampoo and wax and glass cleaner, packets of new sponges and chamois cloths. The leather wipes are bone dry, but there is a bottled product on the lowest shelf that's still sealed. He takes it along with a handful of chapstick tubes from a dusty box on the counter.

“All set?” Sam asks, waving to Chuck as Castiel throws the Jeep into reverse. He pulls out of the parking space while the dog pants in the back seat.

[ ](http://jadstiel.tumblr.com)

* * *

The dog is a female. She puts on weight quickly, consuming more than Castiel does in a day's time. He gives her his portions of rabbit meat, since he isn't fond of the taste. She keeps close to him, curling against his feet when he reads or meditates. When he goes in search of wood to practice steps from his carpentry book, she jogs after him.

“She needs a name,” he tells Sam several days later, when they’re getting ready for bed. Sam’s body has filled out. He’s up to a healthy weight, arms and chest strong when he removes his shirt and gets underneath the covers. The dog leaps up and settles between them.

“I guess so,” Sam says, shrugging. He drops a hand to her head and scratches. She pants and her tail thumps against Castiel’s leg.

“What would Dean have called her?”

Sam snorts. “Probably something out of a book,” he says and rolls over to switch off the light. “Night.”

“Goodnight,” Castiel says and lies down to think.

Sometime around midnight, he decides to call her Bokonon.

“Cas...” Sam says, when Castiel informs him of his choice the next morning. “Why? You don’t even like Vonnegut.”

“I liked that book. Bokonon believed humans should live in a way that makes them happy.”

“Yeah, but this is a _dog_ ,” Sam tells him slowly.

“I thought you weren’t concerned with naming her,” Castiel points out, which ends the argument.

Bokonon lies in the grass while Castiel methodically cleans the Impala, washing her exterior with soap, then covering her in a thin layer of wax. He brushes out the interior, wipes down the dashboard and the instrument panel, cleans behind the steering wheel and in the footwells. He can't do anything about the broken window. He could jump her with one of the Jeeps, but she's likely in need of serious maintenance.

When they construct a simple lean-to over an afternoon, Baby looks at peace.

Bokonon accompanies them on supply runs and twice finds people barricaded in their homes. After some persuading, they relocate them to camp, repurposing a one-bedroom cabin into a bunkhouse that can sleep eight. It's crowded, but it's just temporary housing until they can build new cabins.

When Bokonon isn't rescuing humans, she's tracking dirt into the cabin. She leaves partially-chewed bones on the bed, which she claims as hers. Castiel finds himself relegated to the edge, Sam and Bokonon taking up well more than their combined sixty-six percent allowance. She scratches channels onto the inside of the door when she hears something during the night, whining and running back and forth from the bed to the door until Castiel gets up to let her out.

Sam miraculously sleeps through the chaos.

When he moves out a month later, settling into his new cabin, Castiel expects that Bokonon will go with him, but she scratches at his cabin door every night and takes over Sam's half of the bed.

“Your dog chewed my shoes,” he tells Sam over breakfast.

“You can’t leave your shoes out.” Sam isn’t the least bit apologetic.

He's glaring through a mouthful of food when Chuck bustles into the mess and sits down beside him, pointing at a map in his hand. He starts to speak, but Sam shakes his head—it's a strange gesture, a quick head movement, intended specifically for Chuck. Chuck must pick up on it, because he looks at the map and then to Castiel, like he hadn't noticed him sitting there.

“Oh. Hey, Cas,” he says. He twitches, shifting his vision to the mess entrance.

“Chuck,” Castiel says, feeling instantly that he should leave. He mutters something about going back to his cabin. As he exits the mess, he steals a glance over his shoulder to see Sam and Chuck huddled over the map.

* * *

The supply runs continue, and the occasional swap with other camps. Sam's crops take off, particularly the zucchini, which produce more than the camp can eat. It's not an exciting food, but it's plentiful and makes good currency. No one in camp goes hungry.

Castiel finds himself daydreaming more now that Sam isn't living with him. He'll be in the middle of a task, and then he'll find himself staring at the wall, with no idea how long he's been looking at that spot. He emerges from those moments thinking of Dean, the way he used to be.

Sam is oddly evasive when it comes to run details. At first, Castiel assumes it's a trust issue, that Sam doesn't trust him despite what they've been through. Maybe Chuck told him about the drugs, about his theft.

He finds them whispering together, bent over Chuck's maps.

He finds Sam in his cabin going through his drawers.

“Thought I left something behind,” Sam explains with a smile too big to be genuine, then makes an excuse about checking on the vehicles.

Some of Dean's things are missing: the pair of jeans that was beyond repairing, which Castiel was saving for scraps; an old flannel shirt he'd meant to tear into bandages. They occupied the left side of the bottom drawer. He didn't throw them out—even in his grief, he knows he wouldn't have—but they're gone. Dean's jacket, too.

“Did you take some of Dean’s things from my cabin?” he asks Sam a few days later. Sam is bent over examining small yellow flowers on the tomato plants, already pregnant with fruit. Castiel is whittling a scrap of wood into the shape of a rabbit for two children they rescued outside Hutchison. He pauses the knife and looks up.

“Is that okay?” Sam asks, looking over his shoulder. He squints against the sunlight. “Probably should have asked you.”

“No, it’s fine,” Castiel says, shaking his head. He resumes his work and carves too deeply, smoothing the gash in the wood with his thumb. “Glad I’m not crazy.”

“Listen,” Sam says. He stands and brushes his hands on his jeans. “I didn’t want to tell you, because I thought you’d get upset, but we’ve been looking for him.”

Castiel blinks stupidly. “What?”

“Dean,” Sam says. “We’ve been looking for Dean.”

Castiel stills his hands as his heart begins to pound. “Why?”

“Because he would look for me. He’d look for you, for any of us.” Sam puts a hand on Castiel’s arm. “Cas, I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for him.”

“How—how do you expect to find him?”

“We know where he was going. He was headed to Denver, right? We’ve been planning supply runs to towns he might have come across. Figured we’d hit two birds with one stone.”

“Anything?”

Sam shakes his head. “We found one of the Jeeps a couple hours from here. Chuck confirmed the license plate. It was out of gas, abandoned. No personal items.”

Castiel nods, numb.

“I know it’s a long shot,” Sam says. “But I have to believe he’s out there.”

Castiel shouldn't fault him for wanting to believe in something, in _Dean_ , but he's furious. He turns on his heel and walks briskly to his cabin.

“I should’ve told you,” Sam says, jogging after him. He follows Castiel up the stairs and stops just outside the door. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Castiel swallows the urge to shout and sets his jaw. “I’d like to be alone for a while.”

“Cas—”

“Please go.”

Sam hangs his head for a pause. “Okay, sure. I’ll check on you in the morning.”

Castiel doesn't say anything as Sam leaves. He's shaking. It's several minutes before he draws a breath without the threat of tears. They've been doing so well. He's been doing so well: eating again, sleeping. Co-leading camp operations.

With just a handful of words, Sam has ripped away that emotional bandage. Castiel is as raw as he felt the morning Dean left and wants nothing more than the dullness the pills would bring, but he can’t have them, he knows that. That's not _real_. He curls on his side and sobs into the bed.

“Why?” he demands of an absent father. “Why are you doing this to me?”

No one answers. True to his word, Sam leaves him alone.

* * *

Weeks go by, with a run or swap every fortnight. Sam is careful not to lose sight of economy. Castiel knows he'd rather stay on the road searching for Dean indefinitely, but he locates supplies the camp will need and always returns with them, no matter how long he stares toward a road sign announcing the next town.

Croat populations continue to drop. There's regularly evidence of military intervention: wide tire tracks, a congregation of bullet casings shiny from lack of exposure. When they come upon a burn pile in Akron, it still smolders, leaching black smoke into the air. The air buzzes with flies.

Sam reasons that croats require certain things to survive. Starved of them, they'll weaken and die like anything else.

“Do you think the virus needed the angels?” he asks, turning over a croat with the tip of his boot. “I know it was demonic in nature, but maybe it, I don’t know. Was connected to Heaven somehow.”

There are no bullet holes or other signs of a wound, but the croat is dead, its corpse lousy and rotting.

“I don’t know,” says Castiel, gagging on the smell.

On the ride home, about five hours from camp, he notes tire tracks that skid off the highway into a ditch. He stares at them, neck angled back long after they pass by, massaging a phantom ache in his neck.

“What is it?” Sam asks, craning to look over his shoulder.

“I—deja vu,” Castiel murmurs. He rubs absently at his cheek.

Sam reaches over to pat his shoulder.

“We’re gonna find him,” he promises, taking a deep breath. He lets it out and smiles, returning his eyes to the road.

* * *

Castiel traces the outline for the chapel's foundation in the soil. It's a small space, just ten feet wide and fifteen feet deep. It should be raised, he thinks, in case of heavy rains. He marks where the staircase will go and a place on the far wall, which will house the window Sam brought him.

He traces the outline for a foundation but doesn't allow himself to hope.

The construction doesn't take long. Within days, he's watching Joseph hammer plywood onto the roof and tack on shingles. He builds the stairs himself, sanding the edge of each step until it's smooth, carving a design into the risers while Boko pants at his feet.

When the building is complete, they cut a hole for the window. Sam stands outside and holds it in place while Joseph levels it and Castiel secures it with nails. He adds the window frame, made from wood scraps that he miters at the lower corners and cuts into a curve to reach the point.

His work isn't precise. The joints have gaps. If he puts his hand to the right of the window, he can feel a draft, but the atmosphere is peaceful. The window casts the interior into shades of blue and green.

He constructs simple pews, just three-feet wide, and sets them in three rows with a narrow central aisle. It's takes longer without proper tools—he opts to cut the wood by hand, still uncomfortable working the bandsaw—but he manages.

Sam finds him a gallon of white paint. It requires almost twenty minutes of stirring before the pigment is suspended, but it's worth the ache in his arm. The room is bright and otherworldly when he's finished. He sets down the paint brush, sits on the first pew, and bows his head.

He finds peace in the action, even though it's permanently quiet on the other end. He brings his hands together and seeks release in the stillness.

* * *

Castiel dreams of a highway.

US-24 is a longer hike than the interstate, but it avoids central Topeka and takes him north of Lawrence, where there are bound to be croat swarms. The towns he passes are small, just a few streets wide, but he’s able to find shelter and supplies—a new pair of shoes when his soles flap off, a dry shirt when a thunderstorm soaks his. A few days ago, he discovered a Walmart that still had power and running water and dined like a king on nonperishables. He helped himself to a room at a nearby motel and stayed for two nights, until it didn’t hurt to stand.

He mops sweat from his forehead and shrugs off his jacket. He’s been walking for ages. The cars he finds won’t start. Twice, he’s seen National Guard vehicles and thought about flagging them down, but depending on their destination, he might end up out East, away from the camp and Sam, without the means to return.

The green road sign up ahead reads eleven miles to Kansas City. He practically falls to his knees in relief.

Castiel’s mouth is as dry as dust. There’s a convenience store with a red roof across the road. He stumbles inside and gropes the case for water, the bottles ambient temperature but still sealed. He twists open the cap and swallows the water gratefully. It slides warm and heavy down his throat.

He drinks that bottle and a second one, crushing the plastic in his palm and grabs two more bottles for the road. Delirious and unsteady on his feet, he walks in the direction the sign indicates. Eleven miles. Eleven miles, a jog north, and he’s home.

Squealing tires make his head snap up, but the dream is overlain by Sam’s voice—bold, insistent, yelling Dean’s name over the rumble of an engine.

* * *

The chapel becomes a place of solace for the camp. Jane comes in the mornings. Chuck visits occasionally, and more than once, Castiel has found the camp's youngest residents playing on the floor beneath the window.

But most of the time, he's alone. Castiel spends a good amount of his free time tucked onto a pew against the wall. He reads. Sometimes he sits and listens to the wind or rain. Boko lies on the ground next to him, and he lazily pats her head.

They're in the chapel on a muggy afternoon when he hears the caravan of Jeeps pull in, heralded by enthusiastic honking that signals the party's safe return. They've gotten back just in time. Ozone hangs heavy in the air, signaling impending rain. It's been two weeks without a good downpour.

The engines are still running when Chuck bursts into the chapel with a jubilant expression and says between breaths, “We found him.”

Castiel gets up from the pew, startled.

“Alive?” he asks, mouth gone dry.

Chuck laughs. “Yeah,” he says. “He needs food and a couple stitches, but he’s gonna be okay. He’s out front.”

Castiel feels like he's taken a blow to the chest—he can't catch his breath. His vision goes fuzzy and dark, a minefield of black specks peppering in like static.

“Whoa, whoa,” Chuck says as he lowers Castiel to the ground. “Breathe, man.”

But he can't breathe. He gulps in air but he's drowning. He presses his forehead to his knees, wrapping his arms around them.

“I—I need a minute,” he says.

“Yeah, no problem,” Chuck says. “You want me to wait for you?”

Castiel shakes his head. He hears Chuck stand up and leave, but Castiel can't stop shaking, folding in on himself even though it’s near stifling in the chapel. Boko nudges at his cheek, bathing his face with her tongue, but he bats her away. She whines and growls in protest, but after a few minutes she gives up and leaves as well.

He doesn't get off the floor. He doesn't walk to where the cars are parked. He doesn't go to Dean, whose laughter haunts him through the open door.

Sam comes looking for him a while later and finds Castiel with his back up against the chapel's wall.

“He’s fine,” Sam promises, kneeling down. “He’s in my cabin. He’s asking for you.”

“Sam,” Castiel pleads, twisting his hands together, breath coming in short pants—he can’t do this.

“Look, I know there’s a lot of unresolved stuff between you. I told him he was an asshole for what he did.”

Castiel exhales into shaking palms.

“I’m not gonna force you,” Sam says gently. “This is your call.”

He pats Castiel on the shoulder before leaving.

It's a humid night, so Castiel sleeps in the chapel, content to lie on the hard pew and watch the moonlight play over the stained glass. He’s afraid to go back to his cabin, afraid he’ll relapse or that his traitorous legs will take him to Sam’s door.

He hides in the chapel the following day, despite the grumbling in his stomach that urges him he to the mess. Biology forces him outside to relieve himself, but he keeps to the rear of the chapel, out of sight from the main road. He tries to read to pass the time, but the words blur together. He lays the book down in defeat and pinches the bridge of his nose.

He should go to Dean. He should put aside everything Dean did and go see him, but he remembers waking up alone on the floor. It stops him.

He passes a second night, stubbornly refusing to leave the chapel even when he's lightheaded with hunger and the scent of food drifts across camp. He steals out during the night and forages for leftovers. He showers in the dark bathhouse and returns to his cabin for a few restless hours of sleep.

He wakes early, before there's sound in the camp. It's a little before six, drizzly and cool outside. He dresses and leaves food out for the dog—she must have slept at Sam's—hurrying across the camp to avoid being soaked through.

Sam's lights are off. They're still asleep.

Relieved, Castiel slips into the chapel and takes off his wet shoes, shakes out his hair. He soaks up the solitude, coming to stand before the window when he hears footsteps come up the stairs behind him.

“Cas?”

The voice sends a shiver through him—scratchy but unmistakable. Castiel inhales sharply, unable to turn around, helpless to do anything but listen as the footsteps grow nearer.

“Cas,” Dean repeats, just behind him.

Castiel rocks his head side to side, side to side, and buries his face in his hands.

“Cas, please look at me.”

“You left,” Castiel whispers.

“I know.”

He draws an unsteady breath. “I mourned you. You were dead, and I _mourned_ you.”

Dean lays a hand on his shoulder, but Castiel flinches, pulling away from it.

He rounds on Dean and manages not to gasp. His face is pale, sunken beneath his cheekbones; hair long and pushed away from his forehead. A jagged scar bisects his left cheek, streaking downward like a tear, but his eyes are the same—green and vibrant.

Anger surges in Castiel’s gut. He isn't sure whether he wants to kiss Dean or hit him. He chooses the second option, catching Dean's jaw with his fist. Dean stumbles back a few steps, startled. Castiel stays put, fuming, and flares his hand.

“I understand why you punch people so much,” he says, his mind clearer. He rubs his hand where it aches.

Dean takes a deep breath and massages his jaw. “Alright, I deserved that,” he says.

“You _left_ ,” Castiel repeats.

“In my defense, I was trying to get back.”

“You left me. You left Sam. You left all of us!”

Dean lowers his eyes to the ground and sniffs, nodding once. He sinks onto a pew and drops his hands between his knees.

“I got no excuse for the way I acted. I regret it every damn day.”

“Good.”

“I’m trying to say I’m sorry,” Dean snaps, lifting his face.

“Fuck you,” Castiel spits out. He falls onto the opposite pew. “It was one thing for you to leave me, but your brother...”

Rain strikes the chapel roof. A gust of wind blows a spray of raindrops inside, so Castiel gets up to shut the door. He considers leaving, walking to his cabin and locking the world out, but Dean would follow him. He closes the door and resumes his seat, keeping his eyes on the glass. Dean clears his throat.

“Thank you for taking care of Sammy. He wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for you, Cas, you saved his life. He said he lived with you through the winter.”

“Yes.”

“Glad you weren’t alone,” Dean says. “He said you were pretty bad off for a while.”

Castiel stares at his fingers and pushes at his cuticles, schooling his anger. He wishes Sam hadn’t said anything, but it’s done. Dean glances at him and continues.

“He said you stopped using.”

After a beat, Castiel nods.

“I’m glad,” Dean says. He turns so that his knees are in the aisle and he’s facing Castiel’s side. “I never wanted any of this for you.”

He reaches out for Castiel's hand, wrapping both of his around it. His fingers are skinny, cold but familiar. His whole body is thin, like he hasn’t had a good meal in months.

“Cas, look at me,” he murmurs.

Castiel drops his chin but angles his face sideways, so he looks up into Dean's eyes. They're earnest and pleading, and Castiel's resolve crumbles. His chest tightens, and his eyes well up as a sob tears out of him, echoing off of the ceiling.

Dean kneels down in front of him and wraps his arms around Castiel, who buries his face in Dean's neck and breathes him in. He smells like home.

When he sits back, Dean is smiling at him. Dean cups his face and kisses him, smoothing his thumb across Castiel’s cheek and murmuring, “I’m sorry, Cas. I’m sorry.”

“That doesn’t fix anything,” Castiel says hopelessly.

Dean kisses his hand. “I know.”

They go outside in the rain. Dean keeps an arm around his shoulders during the walk to the cabin. Castiel hesitates at the base of the stairs, expecting Dean to disappear, expecting this to be another of his dreams. Or maybe he's still strung out in the misery of Dean's death and this is a long-suffered hallucination. But Dean's arm remains a reassuring weight on his neck and shoulders.

They walk together up the stairs. Dean shuts the door and latches it behind them, then guides Castiel to the bed.

“Sit down,” he says and comes back with a towel. He dries Castiel’s face and hair, kissing him as he removes Castiel’s shirt and skims fingers down his chest. Castiel is still too thin, ribs visible through his skin—his months of suffering naked for Dean to see. His face burns with shame, but he stays still when Dean leans down and kisses a lush apology to his side, to the curve of his stomach.

Dean crouches next to the bed and slips Castiel's sandals from his feet. He tugs off Castiel's pants and lays them on the chair. He strips down to underwear before holding up the sheet and beckoning for Castiel's hand.

“C’mere,” he whispers.

His body bears new scars, a collage of bruises on his chest and arms. Castiel curls into him, trailing his fingers over scabbing on Dean's collarbone, scar tissue on his right bicep. He kisses a thumb-sized bruise on Dean’s neck, and Dean's jaw where it swells from his fist.

“I’m sorry,” he promises, nuzzling Dean’s throat.

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Yes, it does.” Castiel kisses it again, reverently. He lays his head on Dean’s chest, against the hammering of his heart. “What happened?”

“Spent the first couple months killing every croat we found. Rounded up the bastards and took ‘em out. When the weather turned, we found a place that still had power and water. Camped out for the winter.” Dean tightens his arms around Castiel. “Couple months ago, we got ambushed. Had to fight our way out. A few of us got away, but a swarm followed us, attacked during the night.”

Something falls into place. “In a convenience store,” Castiel says, understanding.

“Yeah.” Dean sounds surprised. “They did a number on me, killed everybody else. I hid out in a house for a few weeks, ‘til I could walk okay. Been picking my way back ever since.”

He threads his hands in Castiel's hair, brushing it away from his face.

“I prayed to you,” Dean confesses. “I know it’s stupid, but I prayed to you every night.”

Castiel lifts a hand to trace the scar on Dean's cheek.

“No,” he whispers, awed. “I heard you.”

* * *

By an unspoken agreement, Dean stays with Sam for the first several weeks.

It shouldn't bother Castiel. Dean and Sam are making up for five lost years, and even though Castiel isn't certain he can overlook what Dean put them through, he wakes every morning with a sour envy of Sam's porch light.

They take their meals together. Dean fetches him for breakfast and in the early evening, and he lingers after the food is gone. Sam gives them their space. They're often the last two in the mess, sitting quietly across from one another as they scrape stuck-on food from their plates. Castiel does it to ensure that Dean is eating; he suspects Dean’s motivation is the same. Day by day, his color improves.

In the evenings, before the sun sets, Castiel catches sight of him sitting on Sam's porch with a book on his lap. It's opened to a page but Dean's eyes wander. He’s often looking at the garden or at Castiel's cabin, where Castiel sits watching him. When he goes inside for the night, he raises a hand.

Dean's touches are chaste: a hand on Castiel's elbow, gentle pressure at the small of his back. He keeps close to Castiel's side when they walk and kneels beside him in the garden, but he doesn't kiss Castiel again. He behaves shyly, maintaining a respectable distance.

But he becomes a regular visitor to the chapel, sitting within its sanctuary for hours. When Castiel finds him crying, head hung low and hands wrung together, he sits across the aisle and waits.

“Bless me,” Dean whispers when he finds his voice again.

“What?”

“You know.” He lifts his face and meets Castiel’s eyes. “Absolve me. Isn’t that what these places are for?”

Dean is tired. His physical wounds are healing, but his eyes are dull and heavily shadowed. Castiel is no stranger to suffering. He looks at Dean with pity but doesn't answer, extending a hand instead, offered palm-up across the aisle. He takes several breaths while Dean studies it.

Dean is waiting for him to withdraw. Dean is still waiting for him to leave, even though Castiel never has and never will. He thrusts his hand further, flattening it into a plane and waiting.

Waiting.

When Dean finally slides his palm into Castiel's hand, he nearly chokes on his joy. Dean wraps his fingers around Castiel's and grips tight.

* * *

Nearly a month after his return, Dean comes to him. He doesn't open the door but knocks and waits for permission to enter.

Castiel thinks he’s dreamt the sound, squinting at the window to determine the time. It’s still dark out, hours before he’s usually awake, but the knocking comes again—more insistent but not demanding. He calls “come in” from the bed and scrubs the heel of his palm into his eyes.

Dean enters with a hushed, “Hey,” but no further explanation. Castiel doesn’t ask for one. He’s quiet as Dean takes off his shoes and pads in socked feet across the wooden floor, stopping next to the bed.

“Did I wake you up?” he asks.

“Yes,” Castiel tells him, the corner of his mouth lifting when Dean snorts laughter at his honesty.

Castiel is tired, his mind sleep-hazy. He wants Dean’s body against him—they can work the rest out later. Thrusting a hand out from under the sheet, he beckons Dean into the bed, rewarded by the whisper of fabric as Dean undresses.

He folds into Castiel willingly, shaking as Castiel takes him apart. Castiel is slow and patient. He uses his tongue and his fingers to elicit a chorus of moans, soft pleas and sighs that Dean gives up in the dark. He swallows the sound of them from Dean's mouth, kissing him languidly as he touches him—careful, deliberate pulls that have Dean keening.

He shudders as he spills over Castiel’s fist, eyes glassy and unfocused. He brings the covers up around them, covering Castiel to his shoulders as he murmurs, “Christ, Cas, I missed you.”

Dean curves around Castiel's back, holding him in the circle of his arms, face pressed to his hair.

“Stay,” Castiel says. “Please.”

They sleep.

When he wakes up, Dean is watching him. Castiel reaches a hand to his face, resting it on Dean's cheek. He trails his finger down the long, pink scar.

“A wise man once told me that watching people sleep is, and I quote, ‘creepy.’”

Dean laughs and leans into Castiel's hand.

“I missed this.”

He fits himself along Castiel's side, tucking his face in the juncture between his neck and shoulder. His hair is still too long. Castiel pulls his hand through it, content to lie with him. Outside, the birds have begun to sing, chirping as dawn approaches.

“Why did you leave?” Castiel asks when the sun begins to rise, spilling gold into the room. He regrets the way his question makes Dean flinch but is bolstered by it too. They can’t pretend the last year didn’t happen, but they can move beyond it. He wants to move beyond it. He cups Dean’s face as he waits for an answer.

“I couldn’t watch him die. Didn’t want to live if he didn’t.” He turns his face into Castiel’s palm and kisses the center. “Don’t want to live without you either.”

“You were going to let me die,” Castiel says.

Dean nods miserably and presses his face into Castiel's neck, like he can crawl inside.

“Cas, why the hell did you stay with me? I’m a fucking asshole. Why didn’t you leave when you had the chance?”

Castiel swallows the tightness in his throat and holds Dean closer.

“You know why.”

“Tell me,” Dean pleads, the first time he’s ever asked.

“I love you,” Castiel says simply.

Dean makes a broken sound and finds his mouth, kissing Castiel until he's forced to break away for air. His eyes are red and glossy with tears, but he's smiling.

“I love you,” Castiel vows, smoothing the tears from Dean’s face, kissing each eyelid and his mouth. “I _love_ you.”

“Me too,” Dean murmurs against his lips, face wet. “Always have.”

He’s beautiful when he cries. 

 


	4. epilogue

**One year later**

“Dean,” Castiel grunts into the pillow at the first touch of his hand.

Dean kisses a damp trail along Castiel's neck and hums innocently. The sweltering August heat is almost unbearable, the air heavy and still. Castiel is sweating, sheet cast aside sometime during the night. They lie naked on the bed and Dean reaches between his legs.

“Dean,” Castiel protests again, checking the time. “We have a meeting in fifteen minutes.”

“They can wait,” Dean murmurs, lushly kissing the corner of Castiel’s mouth, his lips. He pumps his hand slowly, working Castiel’s cock to hardness, and grinds against his thigh.

Castiel cants his hips as he says, “We’ll need showers” and feels the flush of arousal spread over his skin.

“We’ll take a swim later,” Dean promises, pressing his tongue into Castiel’s mouth. He turns his wrist so his fingers brush the head of Castiel’s cock. Castiel moans and thrusts into his fist.

He comes on his stomach, holding his breath as he does, gasping as Dean continues to touch him, rock into his side. Castiel rolls onto his stomach, onto the damp sheets. Dean straddles him, sliding against Castiel's ass, thumbs kneading either side of his spine.

Dean fucks him gently, easing inside and lowering his mouth to kiss the back of Castiel's neck. Castiel relishes the burn, clutching Dean's hands against the sheets as he pushes up to meet him. Dean's breath is hot against Castiel's ear: “Cas…god, you feel good.”

Dean lies down afterwards and continues to kiss him—kisses his mouth and the tip of his nose, his forehead, the skin behind his ear. Dean kisses him like they aren't already five minutes late.

“We need to go,” Castiel tells him, turning his face into Dean’s neck. It’s damp and tastes like salt.

“We need to thank Sammy for finding all that lube. Sure you don’t want to test it out?”

“Tonight. We’re late.”

“Fine,” Dean sighs, but Castiel doesn’t complain about the way Dean’s hands play over his waist as he’s getting dressed, how he hooks his fingers through Castiel’s belt loops, the arm slung over his shoulder as they head across camp with Boko at their heels.

* * *

“Morning,” Sam greets with a smug expression when they stroll into the planning cabin. Even if they’d been on time, it’s obvious what they’ve been doing. Castiel’s lips are swollen and he can’t stop smiling at Dean. He hasn’t felt this blissed-out since he used to get high first thing in the morning.

Dean takes his usual place in the center of the room with Sam. Castiel grins as he falls into his seat, propping his feet on the table. Sam rolls his eyes and swats at his head, but Castiel leaves his feet where they are. Even with the door open and the fan on, it's hellish in the cabin, but Sam keeps things brief. Boko watches from the doorway.

The three of them grab breakfast afterwards. Ever since they installed the chicken coop, Chuck has been experimenting with omelets, and this morning's selection is stuffed with tomatoes and fresh basil from the garden, with a side of zucchini hash.

“Not bad,” Dean comments, digging a fork into the mess.

“I miss bacon,” Castiel confides and sneaks egg to Boko under the table.

Dean laughs and touches his cheek. He resumes chewing and talking to Sam about the plans for the new solar showers, a hand resting on Castiel's thigh while they eat.

* * *

There's no swap scheduled this month, so they spend many lazy afternoons working on Baby. Dean is determined to get her running again. He pops her hood, takes off his shirt and lets the sun beat on him as he works. Castiel lies on the ground with Boko at his side. Her stomach is swollen with puppies. He scratches her ears and rubs a blade of grass between his fingers.

“What’s the verdict?” he asks.

“You did good,” Dean praises, smiling down at him. His face and chest glisten with sweat. “I asked Sammy. He said the lean-to was your idea.”

“Yes.”

“You never told me that.”

“I hated to see your car rusting,” Castiel dismisses.

It wasn’t really about the car, but he doesn’t say so. Dean smiles down at him fondly. He mops his forehead with a rag, then nods to the woods.

“I’m filthy,” he says. “Can’t do any more today without parts. Wanna jump in the lake?”

Boko beats them off the dock, running to the end and leaping into the water. Dean dives in after her in just his pants. Castiel sits on the side of the dock and watches them wrestle, to the amusement of the children who build castles from mud along the shore.

When Dean disappears under the surface, Castiel squints, waiting for Dean to pop up, but a handful of seconds pass. Castiel can't see him, though Boko paddles toward the shore, toward the children that wave at her and stroke her wet fur.

Fifteen seconds go by, then twenty. Dean's probably playing a trick on him, but he doesn't come back up, not even after thirty seconds. Forty. Castiel is frantic, scanning the water for a sign of him: bubbles, unnatural movement. He’s met with the slow undulation of the plants, ripples tripping across the surface from the wind.

His heart hammers in his chest and he prepares to jump in when a hand clamps around his ankle and pulls. He shouts and falls forward into the water, into Dean, who tosses his head to shake water from his face. He's laughing.

“You asshole,” Castiel curses, shoving twin waves at him. His clothes are soaked through, heavy and wet against his skin. Dean wipes his eyes and swims forward, pulling Castiel against him.

“Sorry,” he says against his shoulder, though he doesn’t sound apologetic, just amused. The children titter behind them and Boko barks.

“Hmph,” Castiel responds through a scowl, but it’s hard to maintain when Dean’s hands snake around his waist to steal under his shirt, impossible when Dean kisses him.

* * *

In late afternoon when the sun is beginning to fall, Castiel stands on the porch waiting for Dean to come home. He's over at Sam's—something about military chatter they picked up on the radio, but Castiel suspects it’s code for drinking. He opted to stay behind.

He leans against the railing. It's still strange to stand here with nothing in his hands—no cigarette, no liquor. Grass grows over the place where he threw his last joint.

So much has changed. The flower seeds Chuck planted outside his cabin have grown into a colorful tangle. Jane owns a rocking chair and a welcome mat that warns “Go Away.” Sam’s porch has a dog bed and a lounge chair for reading.

“What’s the news?” Castiel asks when Dean comes up the stairs a while later. He tucks his chin over Castiel's shoulder and plants a hand on either side of him on the railing. He doesn't smell like alcohol.

Dean drops his forehead to Castiel’s shoulder for a moment, then squeezes him tightly.

“Grid’s breaking down further west. Military’s pulling out by the end of the year. Aren’t too many of us left—fewer than they thought.”

“Oh,” says Castiel.

“Yeah.”

In the distance, Sam and Boko play fetch on the main road. They watch in silence as the sky stains red and purple. Boko's happy bark echoes across camp.

“This is nice,” Castiel says.

“It’s no five-star B&B, but it ain’t bad,” Dean says with a laugh, then sobers. “Hey, uh.”

He brings his hands together and twists off his ring.

“What?” Castiel asks.

“It’s not much, but...thought you could wear it,” Dean says, low against Castiel’s ear. He holds the ring pinched in his right hand.

Castiel swallows, looking down at Dean's offer. The ring has seen better days. Its silver finish is tarnished, badly nicked from five hard years, but the inside still shines. He holds his breath and accepts the ring with a nod, awed when Dean slides it onto his finger.

He once thought to give his life for Dean. He gives it to him now, removing one of his bracelets and tying it around Dean's wrist. Dean goes very still as he works. Castiel tugs on the knot to ensure it will hold, then rests his hand beside Dean’s on the railing. He supposes they've always belonged to one another, but it feels sanctioned now. Chosen.

After millennia in Heaven, _home_ is a drafty cabin in a ruined area of Kansas. It’s Sam’s laughter, the weight of Dean's ring on his hand, Dean exhaling against his neck. He presses up against Castiel, lips damp as he kisses the place behind his ear.

The sky is nearly black now, camp plunged into darkness. Sam whistles for Boko to come inside as the stars wink their hellos. Castiel watches one fall, a split-second of brightness as it arcs toward Earth. Somewhere in time is another Castiel, another Dean and another Sam who still have a chance to prevent this.

“Do you think they did it?” he wonders out loud. “Do you think they stopped it?”

Dean's arms tighten in response.

Five years in the past, he’s on his knees in a storage locker chanting _no, no, just kill us_ while Sam gasps for air. Zachariah looks on. And in that room another angel will appear, one still burning with seraphim fire, to strike down his brethren in righteous defiance, believing Dean is saved.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Castiel reads _The Swarm_ by Sylvia Plath from _Ariel_
> 
> Regarding the distance Dean crosses after the Jeep breaks, it's roughly 373 miles (about 121 hours by foot). They broke down near Colby, KS. I felt given the extent of his injuries and lack of access to food and water, it was plausible it might take him a few months to pick his way across croat-infected Kansas back to where the camp is located. 
> 
> **Extras**  
> [Ficlet prequel](http://www.museaway.com/post/111300597130/there-was-a-hole-in-the-blanket-spn-themed-pretty)  
> [Writing playlist](http://8tracks.com/museaway/this-ain-t-a-love-song)  
> [Inspiration board](https://www.pinterest.com/museaway/spn-this-aint-a-love-song-wip/)
> 
>  **Credits**  
>  I started writing this last September, a 1k character study that somehow ballooned past 30k. Thanks to everyone who supported me while I worked on this and to thank my dogs, who had to sit through _The End_ ten times and listen to MCR on repeat. 
> 
> Huge thanks to [Jad](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jad) for her help developing this story and nursing it through infancy (and for the nightly ALL CAPS shouting of encouragement—she made me put in that B&B line); to [Vera_DragonMuse](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Vera_DragonMuse), who helped me with early plot points; and to my beta team: [LoversAntiquities](http://archiveofourown.org/users/loversantiquities), brothersinsync, metatron-the-transformer, eternallydeancas, 1940sdeancas, glassclosetcastiel, and habitatfordeanwinchester.
> 
> [Tumblr](http://museaway.tumblr.com) • [Twitter](http://www.twitter.com/museawayfic)


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